The Executioner

The city had crumbled, and they rebuilt it from ash. It was bound to burn, from the very beginning.

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I woke this morning to darkness. My alarm shouldn't go off for another hour, but I was awake. I didn't want to be up. Not today, not tomorrow. I wish I could sleep and not come back. To be clear, I don't want to die, I just don't want to live. No, I can't continue what I'm doing.

Everyone else was happy- or so they thought they were- except me. Sometime recently, I developed a conscience- the voice that would be my downfall. It had been there a while, but it was always scolded and laughed at until it retreated. Not this time. The seed that had been burnt so many times finally rooted, and now the blooms in my mind would be the death of me.

I am the executioner, you see. Once the thieves and the runners and the thinkers get caught, they come to me for their punishment- for their death.

Disobedience is punishable by death. Treason is punishable by death. Thinking is punishable by death. And I'm beginning to think too much.

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My weapon weighs too much.

Not metaphorically- it doesn't weigh on my soul, or anything (I mean, it does, but that's not what I'm talking about.)

No, it's too heavy. I know my weapon like the back of my hand- it is the only reason I've been kept alive. Too stupid to think, too awkward to work. But I was good with a gun and didn't have a conscience. I killed without a second thought and for that, they gave me shelter and food.

But I've only ever been given one bullet at a time. Even when there were two people, there were two different rooms, with one bullet at a time. There was no room for error in this society, and absolutely no room for rebellion.

When the doors open, everything looks right. Blinding white walls and squeaky clean tile floors. A rebel sitting on his knees, drugged no doubt, with handcuffs behind his back and tape over his mouth. He looks at me without fear in his eyes. Definitely drugged.

I wish I didn't have to. I really wish I didn't. But escaping from this place would require a cleverly devised plan, which is something I definitely don' t have. Any escape attempt would only result in a dead executioner (yours truly), who would quickly be replaced by another. My ideas and beliefs would quickly die with me, and the cycle would start again, as if I never existed. That couldn't happen.

So I walk in as always- three strides forwards, setting my feet, arms up. I look away from the man as I pull the trigger. He falls to the ground.

Red blood stains the white floors before trickling over and staining my boots. I turn- three strides the other way, and walk out the door.

Routine day. Sorry, buddy.

The doors open in front of me and two guards meet me there. They will accompany me home, where I will be free to do as I please until they need me again.

Routine.

A left, two rights, straight for a while, up two floors, and another right. No, no, we normally go left last.

Not routine.

Something is wrong, I can tell.

"Where are we going, boys?" My feet pause for a second, but the guards grab my arms and begin to drag me.

I've only been down this hall once- when I met the King on the first day. They must know. I don't know how they know, but they know. I need to keep it together- keep my heart rate down and stay calm. Act like I don't know what he's talking out. Routine.

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"Do you know what these graphs show?" A few black and white blobs? And some yellow and red?

"No, your majesty." I told myself I would act like I didn't know what he was talking about, but honestly, I have no idea.

"These are the patterns of emotions in your brain," my what? "Each screen here shows the patterns of each of the citizens. Each is monitored carefully, and if required, cameras turn on too. These are normal patterns," He said, and motioned to the picture with the least red. "This page shows the emotions of a rebel."

I'm suddenly aware of the lack of gun in my hand- the guards must have taken it from me earlier.

"And this graph shows your brain over the past few months," there were four illustrations on the paper, each scattered with red and yellow.

"Tell me, executioner," the King snarled, "which chart does your brain mimic?"

I'm no longer focused on the graphs or the King. Just the cold metal of a gun- my gun- pressed against my head and the warmth of the guards' hands clamped around my wrists and throat. I twist and fight but more men rush over to hold me.

"You should know better than anyone, executioner," he nods to the guard with the gun, "treachery will not be tolerated."

I don't hear the shot ring out, nor do I feel the pain; I feel empty and cold. And almost dead. Dying.

Dead.

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