Quick and Painless: A Satirical Reimagining of the Invention of the Guillotine

April 26, 1792

April 26, 1792

My dearest, Lonnie,

Everything I do, I think, I wish is for an unforeseeable future. Antoine once told me that he likes how I think for myself. I hate thinking, thinking will be the death of us all.

People who've found success don't think they just do. There's no planning or daydreaming or hope to live another day. They wake up expecting to die and feeling blessed when they live another day.

If I lacked logic, I would drag Romeo out of bed and take him to the docks. I'd demand to board a ship set for America and kill anyone who got in our way. And when they execute me for my crimes, I'd shrug it off.

Unfortunately, I have logic. It is the most inconvenient thing on the planet.

Antoine Louis has logic. Rather he used to, at least.

Yesterday, after the body was cleaned up and the angry mob had departed. Reporters asked to interview the inventor of the head-chopping contraption. When Antoine volunteered, he was turned away. One of the reporters said, "Non, I don't know who you are."

"I'm the inventor," Antoine said, "I built the machine; it is my design."

The reporter replied, "Non, I want to talk to Joseph-Ignace Guillotin. The man who invented the Guillotine."

With that, Antoine lost it. He said nothing but glared at Guillotin and walked away, quickly calling for me to follow him.

He spent the rest of the night in his room talking to himself, mostly cursing. I didn't mind. The repetition of "fuck Guillotin. Fucking fuck him to fucking hell" was a good indication that he had not drunken himself to death.

Before bed, when Romeo asked for a story, I told him about Cain and Abel. I fun little tale about how a man's jealousy leads to a brutal murder and the spread of hatred to the world.

It seemed fitting.

He stayed in his room through the night and into the day. Meaning, he was leaving Romeo and me alone for most of the morning.

We decide to eat breakfast outside. The sky was beautiful, littered with wispy clouds, and backdropped in blue. Romeo and I watched it as if the white's slow shifting was a play in a theater.

We didn't talk for a while, not until Romeo said, "Papa?"

"Oui?"

"What are clouds made out of?"

"One time, your mama and I were looking at the clouds and I asked her the same question," I told him. Not answering his question, but instead reminiscing of the days that we would lie on our backs in the fields behind

"What did she say?"

"She said that when an artist goes to heaven, he'll be given a paintbrush, and God lets him paint the sky."

"Really?" Romeo asked, turning his head away from the sky for a moment.

"Uh-huh"

"Well, the artist didn't do a good job. The clouds don't look like a painting at all."

I laughed, "Maybe you aren't looking hard enough."

"Or maybe the painting is across the entire world, and we can only see part of it."

"Maybe..."

After a while, Antoine finally came out of his room. He moped around the house, sluggish and annoyed. He didn't say anything and when we asked him a question, he would wave us off.

It stayed that way through lunch, and it was only when the sun started to fall, that Antoine asked me to meet him in his makeshift office. I didn't think it was a good idea to argue. Thus, I followed him.

Antoine's office was just a small corner on the second floor, containing an ink-stained desk, two chairs, and more papers than anyone could imagine. I asked him once what one could possibly write in order to fill all of them, and he responded, "Oh, Andreas, the human race is useless without documentation," which I didn't understand or question.

I tried to stand and simply listen like I was used to. Antoine wouldn't have it, he said in a gruff voice, "Andreas sit down. I can't believe I have to tell you that."

So I sat down in confusion, looking at a man who was more dead than alive. I waited for Antoine to say something, but he stared blankly at the air over my shoulder. I kept waiting.

And waiting

And waiting.

And waiting.

"Monsieur..." I piped. His eyes shot back to me so suddenly that I jumped.

"I'm making exactly three decisions," Andreas exclaimed quickly.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Andreas leaned in, "It will take exactly three decisions to make my life memorable. Without deciding these three things, I will be forgotten upon my death like some common servant, such as yourself."

I must've been glaring at him, though I have no memory of it because he immediately sees me and threw in, "No offense."

Lucky for him, my confusion overweighed my much-taken offense, "What are the decisions?" I questioned.

"I don't know yet. I know one of them, though,"

Once again, I waited in silence for the sentence to complete. I haven't met many elderly people, but forgetting to finish thoughts seems to be a common trend. Maybe it's because they're dying, and their brains are rotting before the rest of them.

"What is it?" I pressed.

"I have decided to hate Guillotin!"

I didn't see how hating Guillotin would change anything. Plenty of people possessed the power of hatred and most of them die alone and angry. They're forgotten before they take their last breath.

Antoine explained before I could ask him to, "If I hate Guillotin, I will have enough motivation to overpower him in our battle for the Louisette's name."

"I see," I lied. Honestly, not one of Antoine's words made any sense, and I was looking for this conversation to end.

That didn't happen. Instead, Antoine started pacing the floor and making overdramatic hand movements.

"I mean, why shouldn't I hate Guillotin?" he started to rant, "I built the Louisette. That was me! I designed it, and I did all the math and I used my own two hands to test it. I killed puppies and decapitated dead bodies. Guillotin didn't do any of that. None of it."

"Well, he did come up with the idea," I intervened,

Antoine laughed. It was the laugh of a mad man, "Right, his brilliant idea. All he did was waltz into the National Assembly, which I put together, by the way. He stood there and told everyone that we needed a universal form of execution. That's not even an idea! It's just an opinion!"

He didn't shut up for what felt like hours.

When he finally dismissed me, I wandered into the kitchen to find Romeo asleep, with his head in his arms on the table. I threw him over my shoulder and carried him upstairs.

I tried to recount the events of today in my head, but instead, put them here on this piece of paper.

If Antoine's rants mean anything, which I'm not convinced they do, that means I'm not entirely useless.

Much love and confusion,

Andreas Moreau