The inhumanity instilled by the crowds the crowd’s thirst for legal and justified blood was very looked forward to. Any decency that hung about in the air was fossilized in the olden ages.
Most of the city folks flocked in batches towards their homes after the clock struck 9. But today was Friday. The town center was decorated by a guillotine, an executioner, an old man in ragged clothes, and a bright young boy in a crisp blue suit. The surroundings were ornated with an unamused mob of workers, traders, beggars, and customers. These days the town center, also the town’s market place was being utilized for public executions. No one complained. In fact, some could not wait for this day to arrive.
The guillotine basked in the orange of the setting sun and shone with all its awaited glory. It was as if it was craving the softness of flesh. The rust on the side of its blades flashed its experience with other accused individuals. The individual in question today was a slender old man. The delicate folds of skin on his face and neck had an eerie warmth. His expression didn’t match his prideful pressed olive tan. Glimmering, unruly hair sprung out from the roots of his head. His eyes were pained and hollow. Shy lips and a constructed, wide nose are what displayed the man’s dead interest in the public’s affairs.
He was asked to place his neck and hands where the contraption asked for them to be. The crowd cheered in a twisted delight. Racial and otherwise offensive slurs were distributed much too generously. The ladies from the tailor’s workshop slandered the man’s honor in utter joy “isn’t he the Muslim beggar from the streets a few days ago!?”, ” The sight of him is revolting”, ” I heard he had a daughter too, shouldn’t she be joining him?”, “what are they waiting for”.
The daughter in question was standing before the device devoid of all understanding. This was the last of her family and she was going to witness his decapitation for a crime he didn’t commit. She yearned to run up to him one last time, to feel the roughness of his exhausted garment, to smell his warm comforting scent, to have his hand pat her head one last time.
The father locked her gaze in his and closed his eyes. She could no longer bear it.
She broke free from her position and leaped towards him. Her eyes were glued shut.
She was met with the top of a cold, brittle blade. her father’s body rested on the ground behind and his head lay at her feet.
She had reached, just not in time.
The crowd jumped in unmitigated glee, as little sheep do up and in the mountains. A single chant was being rehearsed, “to hell with the sinner”. They then broke into unions of hurray and hurrah. The beggars intoxicated with the ambiance of the mob sang out several profanities. They rejoiced by dancing with one another and singing in the most annoying way possible.
A few more minutes of this triumphal shrieking and the refreshed crowd slowly disbanded. Celebratory pitter-patter hovered amongst them as they slowly dismantled and made their way back to their homes. All except one had taken leave. The daughter had been driven to her knees.
She prayed for his return, with all remaining energy she cupped together her hands to receive his miraculous revival, whilst knowing well the reality.
Her home lay in front of her. Grief gripped her senses and all her voices as she tried to curse out the egotistic boy and the guilty executioner that skipped behind him into the depths of the young night.
She didn’t wake up that morning. Or the next.
