I was sitting on the ground, my two arms squeezed to my stomach, and I was crying. As a precaution, I drew my father’s dagger from its spot on my belt, and dragged the edge over the pre-existing scars up and down my wrist. As the blood rose from my newly opened wounds, I felt the stress in my body releasing. As I calmed myself, I addressed the situation at hand.
My brother faced Madame Guillotine at dawn. For his murderous sins, he would suffer the greatest penalty: death. It was only a matter of time before the great blade would rise. I could picture my brother’s cold emotionless features gazing forward as he was brutally decapitated.
He had requested only one thing for the event: my presence.
I sighed heavily, trying to shake the feelings that plagued my body and soul. Realizing the futility of hope, I cried out. I threw my head against the stony wall behind me. The pain seared through my head, causing my arm to instinctively reach to the cut now existing there. The crimson flowing from my scalp added to the stains on my arm.
Again, a heavy sigh. However, I was quite sure this time that it wasn’t me who had sighed. I turned to the dark doorway. And there was my brother. Behind him were two armour clad guards, ever vigilant, watching his every move.
“Hello, brother,” he said mockingly, goading me into response.
“Why did I have to come here?” I asked weakly. My breathing was short, and my words stuttered.
“I wanted you to see how famous one can become,” he taunted. “I wanted you to know that something can come out of life. The fact will always remain that I accomplished things in my life, however illegal, and that you, brother, have not.”
I stood slowly, weak from blood loss. “You face decapitation, and you seek to lecture me about life? You brother, are truly insane.”
“If anyone here is insane, it’s you.” At those words, I glanced to my father’s knife, now bloodstained and laying on the stone. “And I might be about to die, but in my eyes, you might as well already be dead. And if you ask me, I’d rather my death be real.”
With those words, he left me. The two guards followed him out.
I tried to ignore what he had said, and in spite of myself, I dozed off at around two in the morning, knowing that blood would be shed come morn’.
I was awoken to observe the beheading shortly before dawn. My seating was not of my choice; I was put extremely close to the Guillotine itself. Close enough to feel the impact. Close enough to smell the death. Close enough to hear the blade slicing through his spine.
As dawn drew nearer, stands around the device filled with excited townsfolk, awaiting a brutal murder. It seemed so barbaric. I glanced to the knife hanging from my belt and to the scars on my wrists. I choked back the tears at what I had become, and looked onward.
My brother was entering.
He looked at the gallows coldly, whereas the other condemned men almost always go into shock when they see it. The calmness about him seemed surreal; it was as if he wanted his punishment. He was escorted to the Guillotine, and his head placed in the groove. I heard his breathing increase in speed and volume. His first and only sign of weakness.
For an instant, we locked eyes. His cold look burned into my soul. He suddenly stopped breathing loudly and began to laugh softly. As a short amount of time passed, his laughing grew in volume and intensity. I could do nothing but look away.
As his laughter reached insanity, the blade dropped. His head slid off and rolled to my feet.
His final expression was one of contempt. And in that moment, I realized that he was right. Everything he had said was correct. I was already dead.
I drew my father’s dagger for the last time.
