Illustration to Colin Hawkins' Witches
If only it were. We clink glasses again: 'Happy This. Happy That.' I take a gulp and the old woman with red eyes and hair like a winter tree climbs off my shoulders and retreats upstairs, muttering as she goes.
She'll be waiting for me later, at three or four in the morning. She'll climb on my chest, spit in my face and spend the rest of the night pulling at my fingers and telling me I need to change my ways.
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