The October Music, Stanza 2 - Day 25

When My Ashes Turn White

            You stare straight ahead, not allowing your face to show the strain inside you, as the crowd bays for your blood. The shackles on your wrists and ankles are cold and your rough clothes scratch your skin to red as you stumble along the beaten path. The guards to your sides hold your elbows to keep you from falling but only just enough. They could not care less how you die, just so long as you do.

            You are not innocent. Remove the excuses or justifications from your mind. What they have accused you of – things so vile as to not be repeated – you have done. The memories flicker in your mind and, in some way, provide comfort to you. You are what they say you are and you must accept that. You must accept your fate.

            Your innocence was never an option. You were caught in the act and brought to jail. From there, the process moved quickly. Others came forward. The stories piled up, one after the other, until the resultant tower could have crushed the courtroom. Your peers, once kind, stared at you with empty, horrified eyes. You were no longer their friend or neighbor. You were a beast. You are a beast.

            Your counsel proclaimed you were possessed by some demon, that your soul had been overtaken by a creature of the night. He urged you to spit and curse and behave as such. Your counsel made the jury’s choice easier. A quiet town such as this must not suffer the wicked and blasphemous. Your final request was that your counsel be met with the same fate as you. It was granted and he fainted. That was the only moment of joy you have experienced since.

            Ahead, the pyres wait.

            Your counsel has already been tied to the leftmost post. He is sobbing and his shirt is covered with the remains of his breakfast. He is crying out for mercy but none look at him. The rightmost pole is bound to the charred skeleton of whoever came before you. The middle pole – the place of pride – belongs to you.

            Your shackles are removed, and you are bound with thick, heavy rope to the pole. Your hands feel the sharp edges in the wood burnt into small knives by years of bonfires. The preacher gives you last rites, though you do not believe them. Where you go, peace of the soul will not exist for you.

            Your crimes and sentence are read aloud and the crowd boos and hisses and chants for your end. You look up at the sky. It is a cloudy day. No rain shall come, but neither will you be sent off with the kiss of the sun.
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            The fire is lit beneath your feet and you clench your teeth to breaking. You will not scream. You will not give them the final satisfaction of your agony. You shall leave the world as you joined it – defiant and awaiting your true master below.