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

May 1, 1792

May 1, 1792

My Dearest, Lonnie,

Last night I dreamt about decapitating everyone I know. I pulled a lever and was covered in the blood of my friends and family.

Even Romeo. My baby boy, a lifeless, headless body in my imagination.

I woke up with this sick feeling in my stomach. It wasn't a feeling of guilt. I've become used to that. It was more a feeling of disgust and fear.

The closest I've ever come to losing a loved one was when I was twelve, and my mother had a miscarriage. I remember being confused and devastated. I didn't even know the baby, and I still grieved it.

Sure, I've known people who have died, the Mistress, for example, but never someone I was close too. Never someone I loved.

That is, assuming you're not dead.

Really, I've been writing to you for nearly two months and have received nothing in return. I'm aware that your illiterate and overseas delivery can take a long time. Still, I have this fear that I'm sending letters to a corpse.

Please, don't be dead. I promised Romeo he'd meet his mother. I promised you you would meet your son. I promised myself that I would find you.

I'm hopeful. I may have given up on caring about others, but I care about you. And I like to think that you're still alive.

Today is the first of May: the day that Antoine decided Étinne and Anaïs would come back.

Étinne and Anaïs were not happy to leave Metz on such short notice. I'm not even sure if Antoine sent a letter or just a carriage and told the coachman to force them into it.

Either way, they arrived today with small bags filled with anything they owned.

Antoine had decided without consulting anyone that Étinne, Anaïs, Romeo, and I would all sleep in the same room. I hate the idea of Romeo and Anaïs being in the same room. I hate the idea of them living on the same planet. I hate Anaïs.

The damn girl has done nothing but cause me trouble. She's either crazy or clueless, and both are incredibly inconvenient.

I spent the entire day cleaning the house and telling Romeo stories. I don't know why I was cleaning for servants who's job is to clean. I could either clean or arrange executions; I chose the prior.

Étinne and Anaïs arrived late, both of them tired and upset.

Étinne was especially upset. I don't blame him. He has a wife and baby at home, an entire life that he was forced to leave behind.

We spent the night sharing one-word conversations, cold glances of men who have given up on the world, and brothy soup.

The room that I once thought to be big, became incredibly small when two extra people were thrown into the mix. We set up two straw mattresses on the floor and decided it would be best to switch who got to sleep in the bed every two nights.

Personally, I would love for Romeo to get the bed every night. He's a child, he deserves comfort. But he'll have time to fix the pain that comes with sleeping on the floor when he gets older. According to Anaïs, it's easier to be forever crippled when you grow old. It sounds like bullshit, but I didn't feel like arguing.

I made an effort to avoid speaking to Anaïs, considering we left on shaky terms. I should've known better. Anaïs was a force to be reckoned with, an unstoppable happening.

We were folding sheets, trying to juice as much comfort out of the straw sacks as possible when she spoke.

"I feel like you should apologize," She said.

The audacity of this girl, "I'm not going to apologize for protecting my son."

"I know. And you don't have to, it's not your fault."

It was a long while later when she said, "I'm sorry, Andreas."

I have sworn off caring. Thus I didn't take the time to respond.

With love,

Andreas Moreau