As my gears started to grind against the cold leather that was my skin, my body craves for oil. I expect the wicked witch to oil me, but, I realise d what I had done.

  The predicament of fighting my own god and the predicament of fighting the entity responsible for me. It left a sorrow bitterness with a dash of insecureness in my heart which kept beating.

  "Are you done yet?"

  I looked up only to see mother holding a lovely cup of milk in her hand. For a moment, I crawled towards mother like a child. An innocent child, unaware of the horrors of the world and importantly the works of the witch.

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  "hmphf…Are you going to give up?"

  "No," I replied, "I climbed up the tower for one and one reason only."

  The milk in the witches hands turned to lava and welds my foot to the ground. The agonising flames burn my skin and the in midst of this, her cold voice said, 'are you done?'

  "No"

  "No"

  "No"

  I broke the plaster of pumice that had formed on my feet to kick the witch.

  Snap! my leg had torn off. I watched as all my gears fell off.

  I woke up the next morning