She knew why everyone pointed at her as she was walking by in her little village. She was born with intense red hair like a sunset. The pastor said that she was damned and that the Holy Inquisition would get her like they did with her mom. Only among them she ever felt happy; among potions, herbs and plants. She knew about mandrake, stramonium and belladonna before she could even talk, they were just part of her life. Therefore, that night, she ventured into the forest yearning to become one of them. Fire and smoke, flesh and blood. Hooded figures dance under the auspices of a full moon. The ecstasy is here. All the frenzied witches cry out the name of the neophyte. The sacrifice is made and the circle is closed. Now, she feels like one more of the wise women of the forest. The damned, the outcasts, the ones called witches due to people’s ignorance, but, the ones also they quickly run to if a birth goes wrong, when the milk goes sour, or if they want to attract someone they secretly love.