Mother and I walk past all the big buildings and store vendors to get to the marketplace. It's too early to be here, but it gets too crowded any later than this, so I'll endure. From a distance, I can hear someone yelling.
"Newspapers! Get your newspapers!" The young boy yells, waving around the cylinder grey rods. The older man standing next to him snatches the rolled newspaper and whacks the boy in the head, then tugs on the boy's arm to pull him aside. There were soldiers of the W.H.I. marching through the marketplace. They part to reveal a woman, chained and uptight. She's brought up to the stand that would usually be occupied by a band or a messenger of the monarchy, but this time, for a much different reason.
She's getting beheaded.
Her shackles clank against each other as she struggles to break free. As it's all in vain, she grovels on the ground and her eyes tear up. The guards chain her to the fence surrounding the stand and bring in the guillotine. It's rolled out on a cart and the soldiers build it piece by piece. They secure the base, latch on the side wood and clean off the dusty blade. Attaching the rope to the blade in a tight knot. The soldier heaves it high. The whole time the woman is muttering useless prayers to herself. "May Lady Luck be on my side." She repeats these prayers over an over again, like a broken record.
I go near the stand where other people had began to gather. First 3, then 7, 10, 16, 22, 28... Mother walks off towards the fruits and vegetables. It's not everyday you see the execution of a witch. The beheading of a witch. Actually.., that's a lie, we see them pretty often. It just never ceases to intrigue people. How someone can just easily take the life of another... and how they can parade it around like gold.
Guillotines can get very... messy. Blood is hard to clean off metal in a sanitary manner while not rusting the blade or buying a lot of oil. Rusted blades aren't exactly appealing to the eye. Especially when some of these executions are attended by people of high nobility and sticks up their asses! Rich people and their refined taste... Rusted blades also make the W.H.I. look like they have inefficient funds. Which is weird because religious groups usually have a fuck ton of money.
The woman doesn't stop shouting. Her screaming pierces everyone's ears. I get that you're about to die, but make some use out of it. Screaming won't earn you sympathy. It never has, it never will. People despise witches, if you couldn't understand the memo by now. She backs up away from the guillotine, eyes wide and pupils dilated. She looked like a frightened cat. They dragged her towards the guillotine and she fumbles around as they place her under the it. Her hands next to her head. The blade above her gets sharpened and tiny sparks fly off it. She starts crying, non-stop sobbing.
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"I have a family!" You had a family, but then you got cursed,, and all relations to being good disappeared forever. Though, their forever is more like a few minutes, unless these actions really do follow you into the afterlife. You are now a threat to everyone. You have to come to face that you will die being hated. Plus, your family has probably already fled the country to avoid being known associated with you. No one wants to be known as related to you. Nobody knows you anymore. You probably don't even know yourself anymore either. All they hear when your name is said is, "Witch." And nobody, wants to be related to a witch.
The people around me stare in disgust. The mothers clutch onto their children and purses, the fathers hold their fists. They start chanting and punching the air. "Kill the witch! Kill the witch! Kill the witch!" They chant louder, louder and louder. "Spawn of evil!" "Mistress of misfortune!!" Some yell at her. The soldiers place the basket that will catch the head in front of her. She's sweating bullets at this point. They talk and nod to each other. The witch is about to die. The one holding the rope gets ready to let go. The woman braces for the impact of the blade. Shutting her eyes tightly and clenching her jaw. 3...2...1... slice. The crowd erupted in cheer and then proceeded to go on about their day, as if nothing had ever occurred. She's as quickly killed as she was forgotten.
Her head is off with a thump, and it tips out of the basket. It rolls closer and closer towards the edge and finally falls off with a splat. It lands near my feet. I back up trying to shake off the little blood that splashed on my shoes when the head fell over here. This is going to be hell to clean off. There's a line of blood from the toppled basket and limp hands. The soldiers collect the body and head for burning. They place her in a body bag, along with the head. Swiftly cleaning up the spilled blood off the concrete and wood. They grab a towel and wipe the blood off, and then start rubbing in some cleaning supplies. On the concrete, they grab a brush and start scrubbing aggressively. It sounds like sandpaper against sandpaper with a splash of water. I don't understand how someone could possibly do this for a living, but I suppose whatever can make ends meet.
All witches that die in executions are burned at the stake. They're covered with sticks and stacks of hay tied up, then a match is thrown. The stake is every Sunday. Some witches are burned alive. But those are the worst of the worst. They get shipped off to the 5th continent, Witdeaxus, Devfronds. It's the largest land mass in Celia and also happens to be the most unknown. How could you burn bodies of witches without knowing what's over there?! They burn the worse witches over there, yet have no clue of what's beyond. These witches who will actually cause harm and resist, compared to these phonies, who just scream in your ears and make you wish you were the one getting executed. The ash of the burnt witch's bodies gets everywhere,, all in your hair and clothes. Don't even get me started on the stench of the burning bodies—
"Moira! I've yelled your name about 5 times already. We need to get home. Remember what I said about you listening to me." My mother hollers out, holding two bags of ingredients and a glass bottle of milk in her hand.
"Oh,, Alright, coming Mother." I head over, still trying to shake the blood off my shoe without avail. ...I wonder what is for dinner, I'm starving.