A Beautiful Sacrifice

She was screaming as they dragged her out, over the cracked cobbles and as close to, without going into, the evening. Her hands were shackled, her feet not; but that was the exception and it meant she could try to pull away, to run and fight in her desperation… and to the crowds excitement.

                She looked wild, untamed, her hair which had not been brushed or washed for days was standing on end, flying unrestrained around her face. Her eyes were wide with fear, her face gaunt with starvation and her lips blood red against her pale face and it only added to their excitement.

                If she looked mad they felt justified; the more crazy she looked the better. And she was unintentionally putting on a great show. Her guards were bruising her delicate arms with their determined restraining – and all the time laughing. Hiding their real feelings of guilt deep down underneath layers of pretence and determination because to them it was simple, she was their sacrifice. To them her death was their lives.

                She was dressed to lure, but in the colour of death. A plain simple black dress, low cut – just short of revealing. The material clung her body, her curves and flowed to the floor gracefully but with none of the puffiness accustomed to the women of their little town. She was very afraid and unused to such garments she felt ridiculous in her clingy dress, though she knew her body was like every other female and with nothing wrong embarrassment should not be on her mind. But it was. She had no idea how tempting she looked or how the material fitted to her body giving her a quiet air of elegance that was so at odds to her hair, and to her actions.

                Just as, with death looming the shackles rubbing on her wrists, hurting as they chaffed at her soft skin should not have been on her mind, the fingers of the guards digging in should also not have been on her mind. Yet they were. In her fear and panicked struggles, pain still registered. The cold night seemed apt for such a sacrifice, the piercing bite of it serving only to remind her of what was happening.

                The procession was long. They paraded her through her entire village, past the people she had grown up around; trusted and loved in many ways and now they jeered at her, laughed at her madness and made it so felt so…shamed. It made her hate what she was doing. They did not deserve what her death would bring. But it also hurt; once she would have laughed and joked and shared biscuits with her neighbours. Once she would have helped the older women carry their washing or shopping. Now they had turned against her. Forsaken her to her fate and had not shown the least concern or acknowledgement of the little girl they had raised to a woman. They had lapped up the lies that the seed of madness lay inside of her waiting for today to show itself in preparation. They clung to the lie like sailors to a ship in a storm. They knew the lie was for them. For justification. And slowly she began to hate them.

                Her family stayed inside it was both a betrayal and a mercy. They had not fought for their daughter/sister but they did mourn her fate. Her mother had cried dearly as she was dragged away. They accepted the inevitable and for that she couldn’t help but feel hollow inside. They had given her up their daughter and she had loved them dearly, trusted them to love her back and fight for her. She had not been given the chance to say goodbye to them. It angered her and saddened her as much as it as a relief – to say goodbye would have broken her heart and maybe, just maybe for now she had doubts, but she suspected to say goodbye to her would have broken her families hearts as well.