A faintness came over me, as her form, the room, and everything around me began to waver. Part of me wanted to laugh, sleepily, as I stared at my bloody finger. The sharp stick had been a spindle, I thought, as I looked down at it. I had thought my doom would be bigger, more frightening. It was nothing more than a small tool to spin with, yet it had brought me down, as if I were nothing. The thought stung more than the pain in my hand.
“Sleep,” the witch said. There was no hatred in her voice, she sounded almost loving. The spindle dropped; I heard it hit the floor. “Sleep, my beauty, for a hundred years. This sleep will give you death, for change is a kind of death.”