She was a witch. Magic ran through her veins as blood runs through yours. She was able to heal and kill as easily as you are able to count to ten.
But she didn’t fly on a broom, she didn’t have an unpleasant wart on her nose, nor did she have a swollen, bulging hump. No. She was beautiful, and that made them fear her a lot more, that made them fear her magic and her power.
But there was no malice in her for she was a good witch. White magic boiled in her veins and its strong and pure light was reflected in each of her pores, reflected in her eyes. That white magic came from within her, making her even more beautiful than she already was and, in a way, even more fearsome to mortals.
That’s why they killed her; that’s why they hunted her like an animal and tortured her until nothing of her remained; that’s why they picked up the broken pieces of her beautiful soul and burned her to death in a pyre.
And you, who now lament for the cruel and unfair death of such a beautiful angel, were there. You got excited by her death and enjoyed it as if it were nothing more than a show. You are as guilty as the one who lit the pyre, as guilty as the one who tortured her mercilessly, as guilty as the proud one who chased her. You are as guilty as all of them because you didn’t do anything, because you couldn’t stand her being different and that her rarity made her beautiful; because you couldn’t stand that she dared to be different when you didn’t have the courage to do so; because she was a reflection of everything you had always longed for and you were never going to have, and you couldn’t allow that.
She died because of you and, although now you miserably pretend to be sorry for her loss, you would kill her again if you had the chance.