Horror Stories

Revanche

Revanche . . .

By Calypso Yang

Djamena, Carnelia, 1773

"Do you care to take leave with me, Amandaline?" Kai whispers in my ears, quietly, careful to not let anyone in the loud crowd pushing against us to overhear. I nod as the blade of the guillotine slices cleanly through the condemner's head with a sickeningly satisfying crunch. Killed for getting caught stealing bread. My stomach gives a violent lurch and I feel bile rise in my throat. I'm unable to decide which is more sickening, the victim's decapitated head rolling on the sawdust covered scaffold as blood squirts out of his corpse neck, or the crowd that cheers at this grotesquely disturbing display. I can't help but think that maybe he stole the bread to save his child from starvation. Kai intertwines his fingers into mine so we don't part as we try to push through and away from the masses unnoticeably.

"Number three. François Berthelemy, 17. Incited protest against Our Highness, Queen Amity," The executioner with the long, blood covered robe announces, calling forward the next criminal.

"Hail Queen Amity," the crowd repeats in monotone, crossing their arms against their chest in an X. It's not a law to hail the queen, but they do it anyway, like a brainwashed herd of sheep. It is a law for the commoners to watch the executions held every Saturday though, there are guards blocking the entrance and exit. They want to make examples out of the criminals, to keep everyone scared and in line. The smallest misdemeanor, you get the guillotine. Do something a little more out of line, they torture you before they slowly kill you. It's risky to escape, but Kai and I can't stand this anymore, and we know how to get out safely. A baby near me begins to wail, and his mom stifles his cries with her palm. As we finally untangle from the crowd, I turn to look at the criminal, François, hanging by his wrists. He's so young, no older than Kai or I. There are no tears on his face, he doesn't look mad either. He looks like a lamb at a slaughterhouse, an expression I'm familiar with. He's given up. Nirvana.

Kai tugs my hand and I turn back towards him, and we squeeze through the hole in the fence of the town square. I dread the day they find and repair it, but it's a miracle that that hasn't happened yet. Outside, we're safe. It's desolate with everyone back at the town square, even the kids, witnessing torture.

I run down the cobblestone paths, past the beautifully sculpted fountains, feeling light and free. Kai somersaults beside me. It's spring, and the flowers lining the paths are beginning to bloom. The smell of lavender and pastries hangs in the air. Looking at the town like this, it seems peaceful and cozy, as if from the pages of a fairytale.

"One," we hear the chant of the crowd, collective and distant. Then, a faint cheer.

"Two..."

I quicken to a sprint, and so does Kai. Neither of us want to hear the crowd count the whiplashes as François gets them. The image of the fairytale town is replaced with the reality of how Djamena really looks every day. The Queen's men stationed on every corner, ordered to punish any commoner who speaks too loud, dresses inappropriately, complains, or doesn't do their job adequately. They're instructed to whip the married peasant women who travel without their husbands, and peasant widows who wear all black.

"Three..."

We run past the bakeries with the boarded windows and thick locks. Bread price is inflating rapidly now, along with the theft, since the queen increased the tax to throw more parties. Now we work all day and pay everything we earn to the Queen, with barely anything left.

"Four..."

We run past the fountain with the statue of King Stalin XVI, the one next to the little alley. I've witnessed many women lift their skirts for the Queen's men in that alley, so they could earn a few coins to feed their malnourished families.