I was told I was a hero. A saint. A goddess. I was able to heal the mortally wounded, and half dead, occasionally I was able to reanimate (necromance?) a corpse had it not been dead too long.

I’ve cured a thirty seven year old of cancer. An eighty year old of dementia. A ten year old of a skin condition they thought was ugly.

I had the power to heal so well hospitals would pay me well to stay at their hospitals and heal for periods of times. I would even set up a small tent and heal those who couldn’t pay the few hospitals charged.

I was a loved person.

That is until they caught onto the pattern of those healed dying a week or three after suddenly, or mercifully just cutting off everyone.

The reanimated smelt like rotten flesh- the former dead wouldn’t want to die again. The thirty seven year old with cancer lived for two weeks as if they were a teenager before dying in their sleep. The eighty year old remembered a bit too much for her comfortableness, and resorted to taking her life three weeks after. The ten year old, within a week always had the feeling that a bug or spider was crawling on his face.

I was then called a villain, a sinner, a Devil. I was able to heal anyone who wanted to be healed, but with a consequence for not accepting that life flows no matter how wrong you feel it is.

I mercifully heal my patients, and their family turns on me for doing so.

“Witch! You’d be burned at stake! Witch! Sinner”

They all managed to find my home within a few months after the deaths were linked to me, which I do applaud their efforts in doing so.

A trade for a trade. Death for life, and death doesn’t like losing. One illness taken and another given. Life must maintain its balance somehow.

I am blacklisted from setting foot in a healthcare facility, for fear I’d place my “black magic” upon those who were so unfortunate to get sick, or hurt.

They never asked me my reasons, despite it not necessarily being me. It was news to me that I was slowly killing my patients, after all, it paid well, and was using up my energy to heal, why would I care enough to hurt and kill off those patients who’d likely be back within two years or even a month with minor illnesses?

They won’t step foot on my lawn, despite the mob being of many people- of the deceased, Ill, or those who happened to hear I’m a witch from others and wanted proof. They won’t step on my lawn or come within three arm lengths of me in case I try to curse me, and yet they’re still trying to put me down like a witch in the Salem Witch Trials. I don’t know which method they’d try to use, and I don’t care to find out, so I merely watch the mob from with within my house through the windows.

“Come out here, demon!”

It’s a bit amusing, unfortunately, due to the fact if I happened to walk out they’d scurry back so far. It would be quite useless to step out if they won’t even touch me. The chanting of demon and witch mixed with monster and other derogatory terms were spewed out, and I think back to my first patient, or “victim” as the mob had called them. My own sister, about four years younger then me, who had a tumor. Momma had recently found out I also had healing capabilities like hers, although hers were weakening due to her age and own health. (Healers couldn’t heal themselves unless they were blood healers) and pleaded me to help cure my sister of it. With her instruction, I managed to go so.

Momma passed away a few days after. Father was never in the picture, so it was just me and my sister, who was doing much better, playing in the yard and with other kids, much like any other kid would do. This is when I first encountered what life called “equal exchange”

For taking away the tumor and giving my sister a longer life then expected, death poisoned her and took her slowly.

I didn’t think that the two had correlated at first, until my fifth attempt to heal. I realized that each time I healed, they gained up