The Guillotine
A Short Story By Andrew Pritchard

I felt awkward walking through the crowd of peasants. My cheeks turned a scarlet red, as they all gazed at me. They all had blank, starring eyes. As if they knew who I was but didn't recognize me for it or show one ounce of respect for a man of my authority and power.
A peasant tripped me, my face falling towards a puddle and I attempted to push my hands in front of me, but the ground rushed up too quickly and I soon had a face covered in dark mud and dirty water. I was quite roughly grabbed from the ground and helped to my feet by a man with a black hood over his head. I spat some of the murky, cloudy water out of my mouth and a peasant spat at my face. I wiped the spit from my face with my shoulder and continued walking.
Another peasant attempted the same stunt after I had not walked 25 feet from where I last fell. This time I stuck my foot out and tripped up the peasant. When he hit the ground with a splat and mud flew onto the other peasant around him, I repeatedly kicked him in the stomach and head, until I was clubbed in the temple and passed out.
I quickly awoke on some sort of stage with the townsfolk staring at me, smiles and cries of happiness could be heard throughout the small crowd.
My hands were bound and my throat was resting on a curved piece of wood.
The strange man in the black hood who helped me up now turned his hidden face to me and said "Today, the Arch-Bishop of Llanewyll will be executed for his act of high treason and murder against the King!"
The crowd's screams pierced my ears like a thousand daggers to the head. I tried to scream something out, but I no longer could, my voice box was now detached from my mouth so that no words could escape.
As my head fell and rolled onto the muddy ground at the feet of the crowd, everything began to fade, until all I could see was black.