I stand up when my executioner enters the cell. I see no reason to rage or scream at him, staying polite with the man who is about to kill me seems like a good plan. He has no incentive to be kind, if I’m polite, perhaps he won’t be overly cruel.

He introduces himself, but doesn’t offer to shake my hand, for which I am grateful. That would be too normal, and this situation is far from that. Then he asks if I have any questions for him about the procedure. I do, just the one.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, voice as shaky as my knees.

He considers my question for a moment. “Yes.” He admits. “It hurts a little. You won’t be falling very far, though. If you were falling several feet, like in other countries where they have trapdoors, it would hurt much more. Depending on how long you struggle, it might hurt quite a bit. I have seen intense suffering, but I have also seen very quiet passings. At most, your suffering will not last a full half hour.”

“Oh.” I gulp. “Thank you for your honesty.”

“I see no reason to lie to the condemned. We must leave soon, are you prepared?”

I shake my head. “No, but I must go, so I’m as ready as I shall be.”

He smiles faintly at that. “Very well. Your sentence is to go to the noose without hood, or blindfold, or shroud.” He reaches for the topmost button of my shirt.

“Must I be naked?” I ask, arms crossed over my chest protectively.

“Yes, you must. Why are you concerned?”

“I don’t … I’m not …” I stutter pathetically.

He rests a hand at the back of my neck and leans down, whispering into my ear. “You are beautiful. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I can’t wait to admire every inch of your body. You’re going to be beautiful.”

I blush. “I … oh … alright.”

He slowly removes my clothing, taking special care with my bra and panties. He runs his hands along my naked flesh, and goosebumps prickle up by sides. His touch ignites a surprising desire within me. I want this man to take me, now, before my final embrace with the noose.

He binds my hands behind my back with a coarse rope, thinner than the noose that will soon strangle me. I shiver, and he reaches forward, stroking me briefly, as if to calm me down. His hands cup my breasts, his fingers pinch at my nipples. I gasp, leaning back against him.

He seems to remember himself and pulls away. I whimper at the loss: I want more, not less.

“The hour approaches. We cannot delay.”

I nod, cheeks burning with shame, and let him lead me into the corridor and down the hall to the execution chamber. It is not far, and thankfully we encounter no other guards or prisoners. Public executions ceased about five years ago, and now only an executioner is required to attend them. My crimes were not highly publicized, so it’s unlikely that I’ll have any witnesses to my demise.

Despite my attempts at bravery I balk when I see the noose waiting. A simple wooden chair rests beneath it, in a featureless concrete room. There’s another chair, not far from the other, upholstered and a faded green. There is only one door, which the executioner is locking behind himself.

“Did you hope for witnesses?” he asks as I stare around the room.

“No, I … I would prefer to be unobserved. I hear it can be quite humiliating.”

“Not necessarily,” he consults a clipboard and hangs it from a hook on the wall. “You are to hang at exactly twelve noon. Please climb the chair.”

I try, shaking slightly, my bound hands behind my back making me unbalanced. He reaches out to steady me, one hand on my upper thigh, the other grasping my hip. I stand on the chair, skin burning from where he touched me, wishing he would touch me more, before it’s too late.  

He climbs the other chair and reaches up to pull the noose down over my face. It brushes my nose and cheek and I cringe, but bite my tongue and hold back any desperate pleas or begging. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough.

“There there, it’s not so bad, right?” he tugs it snug against my throat. I swallow and say nothing. “Well, yes, it is rather unpleasant, but better this than the blade, or the chair, right?”

That is true. There’s a guillotine at this prison, a huge, hulking, ancient thing they used during old revolutions. Nobody’s sharpened the blade since, and rumor has it that the last time it was used, it took three tries to sever the condemned’s head completely. Not to mention the horrors of the electric chair, deemed inhumane after only a year in operation. It’s still here though, a relic of history. I’ve had nightmares in this prison of being strapped into that thing, of feeling the volts of electricity surging through my body my jaw locked and unable to scream with the agony of the ordeal.

He steps down from his chair and pulls it back a few feet. He consults his wristwatch and nods sadly. “11:58. Do you have any last words?”

I don’t. I made my statement in court, to the families of the victims. I shake my head, the noose scratching at my skin.

He watches his wrist, and then steps behind me, gripping the back of the chair. Oh god, this is it, this is it …

“Three … two … one …”

The chair slides out from under my feet and falls over with a clatter. I fall – not very far, he was right – and stop, the noose jerking up and compressing around my throat, my feet hanging in space, far above the ground they’ve grown so accustomed to. The pain is immediate and excruciating. Without thinking I begin to thrash, legs kicking out every which way, my whole body twisting from side to side and my arms pulling desperately at the bonds around my wrists, frantic to stop the pain of the noose by finding some foothold. In these first few moments it’s although I’m hanging from a bungee cord, not a simple rope at all, for all the leaps and kicks and bounds I manage to execute. I’m panting – I can still breathe at first, though raggedly – and moaning like a cheap whore. I whimper and squeak for every new twinge of pain the noose finds to exploit in my neck. My hips thrust and my hands thud against the small of my back.

He steps back and sits down on the upholstered chair, never taking his eyes off of me and my struggling body. Normally having someone so fixated on me would be embarrassing, but considering the circumstances … it’s strangely comforting. He watches my every move intently, never glancing down at his wrist or going to consult the clipboard. This is better than a small crowd of witnesses, this is … intimate.

My lungs are on fire. Groans I can’t begin to control issue from my chest, stifled somewhat by the noose. Eyes watering, I spin and kick and try to jump up to ease the pressure of the noose for a split second, so I can sneak in a quick breath. After several fruitless and painful tries, I manage, and the gasp of air I receive is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. All too soon, however, it grows stale and I ache for another. I swing back and forth from the rope, legs racing as though I were running, in an effort to hop up again and get more air. Again, I manage to get some air, but it’s a trickle compared to my earlier gasp. I savor it, legs paddling the air as the noose digs still deeper into my throat. It’s too tight now: even if I were to manage to jump up again it wouldn’t do me any good.

A part of my brain urges me to seek footing. I stretch out my legs as far as they’ll go, searching for ground that I know won’t be there. …



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