Child Marionette

        I had too many drinks that night. It wasn't quite 4 am and I was headed home from a long night out. It must've been a work party and the night was cold. The slightest rainfall sent a shiver down my spine. A chill crawled around my body, fingers tingling as I trudged onward down the abandoned alley, to the shabby apartment I called home. My vision was blurred at the edges, headspace crowded with concentration to see through the darkness of the dreary night. Not a single light was on to aid me with my walk. It felt like I had been walking in circles, the world spinning around. Each step was throwing me forwards- I was so dizzy.
        Scanning ahead I saw a shadow lurking towards me from the alley. My instincts told me things weren't right, and so I fumbled through my pockets, hoping to come across anything to protect myself. I didn't find anything, nothing at all. By then, the shadow was stationary. I wrenched a board loose from a nearby gate, and it was lined with nails, weathered with gritty brown rust. I had taken it upon myself to creep up towards the figure. I didn't know what had broken my concentration, but I was not well.
        My stomach groaned, making the crunching sound of the board slamming into its petite skull seem louder than it actually was. There wasn't any movement from the repulsive child. It looked like it hadn't showered in months, never mind the dull rusty nails embedded in its forehead. Blood was spitting from the punctures underneath the board, and from the minor's mouth. Its eyes were rolling around, as if they had forgotten their function. Possibly because there were chunks of wood and rock piercing them, bulging from under its eyelids.
        By the time I regain concentration,  the weight of the splintered board had tripled, as the infant's head was still attached to the other end, child dangling like a wet towel. I wildly shook the board, creating a tremor throughout its body, like it wanted to dance. I struggled down the alley, making the dripping marionette dance along the way. I was mesmerized by the child swaying. I then decided, what I really wanted, was a custom doll to play with. I set down my precious puppet.
        Dawn was approaching as I plucked a loose nail from my weapon, and traced it along the bottom of its ruptured eyeballs. My gaze followed the trace of light on the child's chest, mocking me. The nail sunk into the chest cavity, oozing blood as I gently ripped down the tiny torso. I opened the ribcage as one would open theatre doors; innards spilling through like spaghetti as I seized the child's cold, malleable heart, cramming it into the punctured stomach. That's when I heard a scream.
        "And after that?"
        "My apologies, Judge Begby, but that's all I remember."
        "You don't recall breaking the neck or shoving the tongue down the minor's throat?"
        "Not particularly, Your Honor... Although it does ring a bell..."
        The Judge slams his fist on the table, sounding louder than thunder, and exclaims,
        "You are hereby sentenced to death. At 5 a.m. sharp, you are to be hanged."
        They escort me to my cell, and I spend the night staring grimly at the stone walls.
        It must be around 4:45 a.m., because I am rudely yanked upright and off the damp cot, where I had previously faded in and out of sleep. We all stiffly march outside to where my 'good friend', Begby, stands. He directs his speech towards the gathered audience as I stand on the rotted platform before the noose, shackled, a guard on either side of me. I stare through the noose, and then it is around my neck, being fastened so I am sure to suffocate to death with a few rope burns.
        The floor caves beneath me when the clock strikes five. I drop like a brick, until the rope is slack. After a few seconds, my head is light and my lungs are longing for the air surrounding my fading body. The bones in my back and neck are cracking and popping with each passing moment, the flesh on my neck burning against the rope. I focus on my limp limbs, but I only wonder if there is a faint line of light on my chest too, mocking the audience. The last rush of blood crawls through my body, and I know I'm gone.
        No one claims my body, and I'm buried in a haste, still painted in the blood of my child marionette; my head getting slammed with the shovel and mud packed into my mouth and open eyes, taking no care in stomping on the earth on top of me.
        I now lie beneath the old Maritime Museum, and to this day, haven't stopped searching for my young victim.