The Widow

Heads turned as Morana walked through the busy marketplace, men and women made way for her to walk through but their actions were not noble or respectable, they were filled with contempt and disdain.

It was the widow of the east's first public appearance in weeks and the people were scared out of their minds.

"Why is she here?"

"Is she looking for a new victim?"

"Don't look at her in the eye, I heard that's how she kills people."

The whispers kept increasing with each passing second. Mothers were dragging their children behind them, cautioning them not to get close to the widow while shopkeepers were closing up, afraid to have the cursed widow buy anything from their shops.

Morana who stepped out to buy some milk was being judged left and right by the people who felt it was their god-given right to pass judgment and determine who was pure and who was evil.

How hypocritical.

"Sorry, we've run out of milk." The shopkeepers would lie bluntly while a large milk jar was beside them. They didn't even try to hide their hatred for her.

After being turned down by every shop she went to, Morana decided to head back home. There was no point in walking around while everyone else raised their shoulders in fear of her.

She carried her empty milk bottle in her hand as she made her way up the hill. 'The cursed hill' as dubbed by the villagers.

It didn't help her reputation that she lived alone in a dark mansion on the top of the hill. A mansion where her husband, parents, and maids died in but she couldn't help it, there was no place like home after all.

Over the years, the cursed hill became a place where rebellious teenagers would challenge themselves to climb as a show of bravery among their peers, a rite of passage of some sort. The worst among them would even go as far as to throw eggs and tomatoes at her mansion but they all ran away the moment they saw her standing by the window with her face hidden behind a veil.

It became a hobby of hers to scare those teenagers away. If they considered her a monster, then she might as well have some fun and act as one.

Her black dress swayed against the rocky ground as she made her way up the hill. The few times she managed to gather courage and leave the comforts of her home, she would get ridiculed and judged by everyone who came across her.

Even eating became a problem since only a few people would sell food to her and they did so without hiding the disgust on their faces.

Much like the exterior, the interior of her mansion was dark, cold, and lonely. Despite being the only one living there, Morana sometimes heard voices in the home. It nearly made her believe the rumors that the ghosts of the people who died there were in fact still around.

"Another successful day of socializing with other humans." Morana sarcastically said to herself while pouring a glass of wine.

When you live alone for so long, it's only a matter of time before you start talking to yourself as a form of entertainment, and that was an act Morana practiced a lot.

The superstitions about Morana's past were so exaggerated and out of this world that she was always looking forward to hearing what new story they had to tell about her.

Her favorite story, in particular, was the one where the grandmas and grandpas of the village would tell their grandkids she was an immortal tyrant who killed people and ate their souls to lengthen her lifespan. They also said she wasn't a human but death in human flesh as if the story of her birth wasn't broadcasted around the kingdom.

"It would be nice to be immortal." She would always tell herself whenever she heard the ridiculous rumors.

Despite living a life of pain, sadness, and sorrow, Morana still loved the world and everything in it, including the people who hated her. She wanted to enjoy the beauties of the world and make a difference which is why she loved the story of her being immortal.

They say people should find the light at the end of the tunnel so Morana found her light in the being the hottest topic on everyone's tounges. Her silver lining was becoming a local celebrity, although not a very beloved one.

Embroidery. It was one of Morana's favorite pastimes aside from scaring away teenagers. She was incredibly skilled in the art and could sell what she embroidered and made a pretty penny but who would buy anything from death herself?

The question of separating the art from the artist was one that did not apply to Morana.

She once tried to give humanity a chance and sell her embroidered pieces but the villagers angrily burned down her stall and chased her out of the market, saying the whole market would run dry if she sold anything there.

The saddest part was that she didin't even need a job to earn money, she just wanted to share her art with the people.

"What a life." Morana sighed.

As much as she acted unbothered, it still hurt her to know she couldn't live a normal life because of the circumstances of her birth.

Even partaking in the most normal human activities was a problem for someone like her.

'Someone like her.' That was a sentence people frequently used to describe Morana as if she wasn't also human, just like them.

Everyone bore deep hatred for her to the point where even homeless people would rather remain homeless and starve than take help from Morana who had plenty to spare.

The world was just too cruel and yet beautiful at the same time.