My Full Confession

Suddenly You Find Yourself Alone

The hanging was a week later, and yet it was quite the spectacle. My brother took me to watch, not to be there for John (for the Watson family did not attend) but to make sure I knew what was my fate should I ever step out of line, or disobey his rules of affection. I didn't want to go, and my mother protested even more, however my father seemed to think that it would make men out of us both, and so he allowed us to go and watch our neighbor hang. I stood on the porch in my black suit, deciding that if I had to go I would go in mourning, and stared over at the Watson's farmhouse. I was afraid that I might see John there, for I didn't want him to think the worst of me. It was unethical to go to watch your friend's father die, I knew that in my heart and surely Mycroft was aware of it as well. And yet he was trying to protect me from myself, he was trying to scare me straight, quite literally, and so he joined me on the porch and took my hand so as to walk into town together. It was a long, slow walk down the dirt roads. Occasionally people would pass us in cars or on horses, kicking up a great cloud of dust into our faces which we had to clear away rapidly. Yet we forged on, entering into town just in time to join the large crowd which was gathering in front of the town hall. There was a gallows set up, a gigantic wooden platform with a single rope tied from the top of it. It was a noose, a horrible looking thing that was going to be the death of Mr. Watson shortly. It sent shivers down my spine; I tried to look away yet my brother insisted I watch, clutching my hand tighter as soon as I began to show signs of fear.
"You do not want to end up here, William." He warned, obviously making this the message against John Watson. It made no sense to me why he was so afraid; I wasn't sure what he had against love in the first place. Just because I loved John did not make me a criminal, I loved Mycroft and certainly I wasn't doomed to hell for that. There was a large crowd gathered, larger than anything I've seen for any event, perhaps besides church. It was interesting how tragedy was so good at pulling the townspeople together, and bringing us all out to ogle at the despair and death of another one of our kin. Mr. Watson didn't deserve death, even at such a young age I understood that putting a man to death for simply trying to feed his family was much too dramatic. Ten years in prison, perhaps even life in prison, would be a fair treatment for such a thief. He didn't kill anyone in the process; he just needed to grow his crop. And yet there he would swing, and here we would watch, and listen for the snap of his neck. I huddled closer to my brother, listening to the jeers of the townspeople, those wretched people, thirsty for blood. The doors to the prison opened loudly, to which the crowd immediately fell silent, watching now as the thin, broken figure of Mr. Watson came huddling out on a chain. Two guards supported him, for it seemed as though he was unable to walk on his own. Whether he was too afraid to muster strength or whether they had beaten him senseless in prison was beyond mean, yet he was in more of a pitiful state than I had ever seen him. I tried to think back to if I had ever seen that man before, and decided finally that I might've seen glimpses of him on his tractor from by bedroom window. Once or twice he must've come up to talk to my father, yet when I was little I thought nothing of it, nothing to keep in my memory for this moment. What a horrible state for a man to degrade to, especially a farmer who was supposed to be strong. What broke my heart the most was the way he reminded me of his son, even from here I could see that their facial structure was more or less the same. They had the same color hair, the same fierce eyes... In fact he looked so much like John that I cowered even closer to Mycroft, closing my eyes in protest and clutching onto my brother's leg. I was afraid, I admit that. My heart was beating faster than it ever had before, my legs felt like jelly and my breath was coming in forced gasps, if at all. It was a terrifying sight, and I knew of course that the worst would be on its way.
"You need to watch, William." Mycroft whispered. "Say a prayer for him." I straightened up, seeing that they were now placing the prisoner on the gallows, and fixing a bag over top of his head. That was the last time I saw Mr. Watson, or rather the last time I saw his face. That would be my one and only memory of the man, and yet it had seared into my eyes ever since. It felt as though he was looking right at me, and while I'm sure he wasn't seeing anything at all I had felt those eyes trained on me even through the burlap which covered his face. He was accusing me, of something. Or perhaps it was a pleading stare, looking at me and begging me to take care of his son, begging me to make up for the love he could no longer provide John. I looked away again, and began to murmur prayers under my breath. The crowd held its breath, all at once their fists clenched and their eyes watched anxiously. I caught a glimpse of Victor, standing next to the scaffolding while his father mounted the stairs, so as to pull the lever. Victor looked dapper today, dressed in his best so as to make a good impression in front of the crowd. Oh, how that boy sickened me. Mr. Trevor looked towards his prisoner, waiting while the priest finished his final words, and without hesitation he grabbed hold of the lever and pulled. I was only able to see the floor fall from under the man's feet; right as soon as he began to drop I gave a squeal and closed my eyes. I didn't look, nor did I hear anything at all. I had expected the snap of a neck; I had expected something which might allude to the man's death. I looked back up, hearing the roaring of the excited crowd, wondering if there had been some miraculous escape while I had shut my eyes for those thirty seconds. Perhaps I had missed something, something which might have allowed poor Mr. Watson to live another day? And yet when I brought my eyes back to the man I saw that he was indeed alive, his neck had not snapped, and he was wiggling and squirming from the rope. His legs were kicking and his hands were tied behind his back, flailing with the effort to catch a breath, and struggling now with the thin line between life and death. I could tell he did not want to die so slowly, yet he did not want to live with the rope around his neck for long, he did not want to feel this pain any longer than he had to. Mycroft winced, once more putting a hand on my shoulder in regret.
"They should just shoot him." he muttered quietly.
"Why do they let him suffer?" I wondered painfully, feeling a tear slide from my eye as I was able to hear the man's struggled, stifled screams just below the hollering of the crowd. They were excited to see him suffer, they found legitimate enjoyment from it! I was sickened.
"To make an example, William. To make sure everyone knows not to take what isn't theirs." Mycroft murmured. "Come on then, I think we've seen enough." And with that he began to steer me away, tugging onto my shoulder and leaving the crowd behind, kicking up dust in our wake as we walked back home, until finally the straining of the rope and the screaming of the crowd had been replaced with the pleasant chirp of the birds, and the sound of a very distant motor.