Execution
The final moments before a man's execution.
Five minutes. Five minutes circled his thoughts - five minutes until execution - five minutes spent praying for a stay, for mercy, for anything. None came. He wondered, if he truly had five minutes to live, who would he be? A loving father. A husband to a beautiful wife, reminding her every second of every day how deeply she was cherished. Children laughing, running through open fields. Idyllic. Comforting. Impossible.
Those five minutes shrank to two as his head was forced onto the block - the guillotine looming above him - its shadow cold against his neck. He knew what followed.
His life had been anything but idyllic. A career criminal. A mercenary for hire. In the heat of a moment, he had murdered a man in cold blood and felt no remorse then. “It was either him or me,” he had said without hesitation. Yet the dream of those imagined five minutes betrayed what he had wanted instead. Not bloodshed. Not coin. A quiet life - a dairy farmer, a sheep herder - hands rough from honest work, lungs full of clean air. Nature had been his only comfort, stolen in brief moments whenever he could escape the world he had made.
With his head pressed to the wood, two minutes remained. At first his mind went blank. Then the memories surged back - what he had done, what he had become, what he could never be. His face tightened, muscles drawn and trembling. His jaw clenched, then quivered. His brow furrowed deep with regret he had never allowed himself to feel. Guilt carved itself into his expression, followed by shame, raw and unavoidable. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, tracing slow paths down dirt-streaked cheeks as the truth settled in - this was the end.
Only then did he truly hear the crowd. Cheers. Laughter. Voices hungry for finality, for spectacle. A witch hunt disguised as justice. How could anyone celebrate this, he wondered. The end of a man’s life was not something to applaud. It was something to mourn - as his priest had reminded him again and again - because in death, all men are the same.
The crowd heard a sharp clink as the blade was released, followed by a hollow thud as his head fell into the basket below.
It was done.
Woah, this was visceral. Resigning one's life to the metal held in another man's hand. It's grotesque, but it really makes you weigh the value of your life—just to stand indignity after indignation.
Eyes so big for the belly is weak.
And now red oil is spilling down the street.
(C'est Ed au fait, ton écriture est chanmé)
This was an amazing read one of the best so far. It evoked deep sadness and an underlying darkness, making it a powerful and thought provoking exploration of the value of one’s life.