Florence, Italy
The stake came into plain sight, in the center of the Piazza, surrounded by the citizens of Florence. It was a little taller than my height, and slightly scorched from a previous burn. I placed my hand over my heart. I wanted to die swiftly and painlessly. I wanted to hide Joseph and Marie and my unborn child (or children) from eternal sorrow and curiosity. I saw them in the crowds, tightly gripping each other’s hands, trying to the ends of the universe not to cry in my last moments of life. I tried to stay strong as Joseph and Marie were right then, but I felt wet tears rolling down my face. I was humiliated by the people of the church, stripped of my pride and dignity. Only a few minutes after I had “begged” the pardon of God and man, they grabbed me at the arms, and I was tied to a wooden plank with rope woven with reeds. The rope, tightened to the point of near suffocation, itched as if wool had been rubbed across my neck. I was wearing a sulfur-stained tunic, which smelled awfully bad. Then, the hay and twigs and straw around me was lit, and the burning began.
At first, only flames danced around me, and smoke flitted with it. The crowd stood together and whispered in hushed voices. So many tears flowed down my face, seemingly trying to put the fire out. The flames grew into a monster, consuming me in its grasp. Oh bloody hell. I wailed in pain like a child would, wanting it all to stop. The odor of burning sulfur attempted to suffocate me, but I stayed strong, holding it back for a little longer. Hot flames burnt my skin to a crisp. I did not want to stare at my injuries all over my arms and bare feet. I glimpsed at my wife and son, my former students, my old colleagues, and finally, Dante, in horror, all of their eyes. I loved them, loved them all, but my love would be taken away. I screamed the names of my wife and son over the crackling fire erupting into the air, an arduous task. I took one last breath, and submitted to the smog, limping over and succumbing to death herself.
