And with that, I was condemned to death. Yet I had committed no crime. It was 1692, in Salem, Massachusetts. I sat in the dark, cold dungeon for hours thinking why someone would say I, of all people, would be a witch.

After a dinner of stale bread crust and water, I began thinking of ways to escape. All that was in the dungeon was a small cot, a bench, and half-full pitcher of water. Nothing useful. My hope was diminishing.

I laid down on the cot and thought of why someone would accuse me of being a witch. I was condemned to Gallows’s Hill for seemingly no reason. I was to be hung the next morning and desperation set in.

I began crying.  Crying as if I were a baby away from its mother. I cried about my life about to be cut short. Death scared me. My biggest fear was that it would be long and drawn out. I didn’t want the pain to last. I cried myself to sleep.

“Rebecca Nurse, you have been condemned to death for the crime of witchcraft,” the man read from a dried piece of parchment. The man who controlled the floor panel tensed. With a nod from the judge, he pulled the lever.
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