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Then the police seized my phone, and that’s when I knew that it was truly over. That phone contained everything. All the evidence that they needed was on there: text messages, phone calls, and several photos and video clips.Embarrassingly, it all soon became public knowledge. Somehow the press had obtained and published leaked text messages and a few photos. Body parts had been blurred out of course, but it didn’t take a genius to work it out from the headlines who it was.Unlike my mum, dad was quite relaxed about it. He could see that all this had done was to enhance my already blossoming reputation, and it had. I’ve become quite the local celebrity since the news broke, adept at noticing the subtle sideways glances and the secretive whispered comments spoken behind hands as I passed them in the street.Take the pretty, brown-haired police officer, who at this moment is standing opposite me by the door that led to the pressroom for example. She thinks that I haven’t noticed, but every. I can only make fists out of my fingers and open them again; it eases the pain from the bindings around my wrist a little. My eyes scan over the crowd, they all stare back, full of anticipation, full of hate. I can see the executioner; he is wearing a leather cap to hide his face, his dark eyes glitter below. He puts a torch into a brazier, dark smoke rises from it as the tar caught. The judge steps in front of the crowd, the priest next to him. They announce my crimes, my sins, my confession and that there is only one punishment for witchcraft. They don't tell what they did to me in the dungeon, how they hurt me, how they forced me to confess crimes I did not commit. On a command the executioner took the blazing torch, the crowd suddenly got silent.I have only eyes for the torch, coming more near every second. The fire flickers around the pitch, black smoke rises around the flame. No, please, not. I sob, tears stream down my face. I shout that I am innocent, that I have done nothing.
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