Grey is the New Grey by @milpool__

Grey is the New Grey, or How I (Probably Won’t) Survive the Salem Witch Hysteria by @milpool__

Good morrow. My name is Goodwife Doddridge and as you can probably tell, I’m in a little bit of a predicament here.  This whole “witch” business has been going on for months now, and I must say it adequately jars my preserves. I wish nothing more than to have all of this sorted out so that I can return to my home and continue to be an upstanding, respectable wife and functional member of our towne and congregation. However, I trust in the good men of the council, who hold divine conference with our Lord, and I have the utmost confidence that they will cleanse this place of all evil, which does mislead our youth and poison our minds with its demonic trickery…

…check around that corner for me, is the guard on his break? Yes? Okay, good, because lemme tell you, I’m fucking PISSED. I- do you have a smoke? Oh, bless you. So anyway, as I was saying…these eunuch man-babies in charge have been running wild for the past three months throwing The Book at anyone who breathes wrong and for what? Because a bunch of little ankle-biters wandered into the woods and tried to hang with the cool kids, but then ended up doing some real fucked up cultural appropriating? Or is it because I told little Betty Parris to stop trampling my Rosemary with her prematurely huge feet? As if that’s a completely un-fucking-reasonable request. If you ask me, Reverend Parris should be the one in rusty shackles, festering in his own period blood for raising such a miserable hellcat of a child.

Which reminds me, I’ve been chained up in this disgusting cholera-hole for I don’t even know how long and has my completely useless husband been to visit me even once? No. Oh sure, he’s probably “toiling in the fields, keeping up with the housework I’ve neglected in favor of consorting with The Devil” but to be quite honest, I’ve seen how he looks at Goodwife Eaton next door…and her daughter Constance…and their sheep Ellory.  I trust he’s plenty busy toiling in some fields, if you catch my drift. What I’m saying is he’s getting that nice-nice daily and nightly and ever-so-rightly, and meanwhile the only penetration that’s been happening in here is that one time I tried to wipe myself with a pinecone in the dark.

And don’t get me started on these ladies in here with me. You’d think that we’d have some kind of badass sisterhood going on, considering we’re probably gonna end up swinging from the same tree and all, but I have to say, I’ve never met a bigger group of complete downers in all my life. All the feverish praying, begging God to free them and save their mortal souls, calling for their husbands, pleading to be pardoned…hell-OOO, ladies, who do you think built this dilapidated shitstack in the first place? If I was a betting woman (which I might as well be since I’m gonna be strung up by the end of the week anyway) I’d wager that their “loving husbands’’ get a weird halfie every time they attend one of these “public hangings” they put us through.  (Which reminds me, we’ll talk in a bit about what my dying words are gonna be. I’m stuck between ‘Hail Satan’ and ‘You’ll never find out what I did to all the water, fuckers.’)

The thing that really gets to me is that before all of this nonsense, I was the PICTURE of a Christian woman. When the neighbors’ children took ill with that mysterious flu, you better believe I spent the week covered in their crap and vomit nursing them back to health. When the meeting house burned down, whose living room do you think we held services in for MONTHS!? And when I found out that my husband had taken up with one of the village slave girls from Barbados, guess who covered for him by telling everyone that’s just how I sound during sex? I had to pretend to do the accent and everything, it was all very offensive.

So then one day the police show up at my door with a warrant signed by that sex creep Cotton Mather (you don’t even want to know about that. All I’ll say is that he INSISTS on being the one who brings all the hanged corpses to their grave site in the woods ALONE, so draw your own conclusions there..) and they haul me off to this abysmal hellhole, and I can tell this cop is really enjoying himself (wanna talk about weird halfies) and he says (like pretty much gleefully) that I’m being detained based on “spectral evidence.” Now, if you don’t know what spectral evidence is, it basically means that one of the little snots who accused me told this stuffed-wig impotent judge that I sent a ghost to go fuck with her. Wanna know how you know that isn’t true? If I was gonna hurt the little scoundrel, you better believe I would do it with my own two hands.

If you ask me, I think this is all just a mad grab for land. I mean look at all the people in here with me. Goody Proctor, Goody Bishop, that lady with the nice butter churn I like to borrow whose name I can’t remember…and what’s the common denominator? Sick. Ass. Land. Properties next to rivers, with notoriously verdant crops and plenty of room for toilin’. I’d bet my life that the scumbags in power have been pouting about our good fortune for months now, and have been scheming up a way of screwing us out of our farms. And it’s working. Matter of fact, they just foreclosed on poor old Giles Corey’s place last week, which is just awful, he must be crushed.

Anywho, I’m just really hoping to ride this one out in this stank-ass dungeon until I can get home to my awful husband and finally clear my good Christian name. Plus, if they end up snooping around and finding those kids’ bones in my garden I’m gonna be totally fucked.

**Goody Doddridge was hanged two days after this interview. Her last words were “Satan can only get you when you’re pooping.” 

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