They Came for Me

They came for me while I languished there. They came for me while I sat staring at the stoney walls that imprisoned me. The feeble fire to warm my bones, made pained by the damp and northerly winds over so many years. The rats no longer noticed me; so long we had shared each others company.

They turned the key to open what was now nothing more than my pissing place. My emotions had run dry with time, as if I were sand on a baking desert. No longer did I have great care, with my shadow as my only charge.

I had nothing more to speak, but not because my opinions had withered with my heart, but rather that I no longer had instrument with which to express, since she ordered it cut from my sinful hole.

The cling-clang of the Gaoler’s belt, such a familiar sound, informs me that they were to visit me again. I spent no time concerning over the purpose of their visit. I knew full well what fate awaited me.

For this day, I would walk the cold stoney corridors of my gaol. I would stumble down the narrow, stone steps, which were designed for the thinnest of people. Out into a cold English day, I would feel the fresh air upon my face for the last time.

The cheering mob would batter my ears as I hobbled the wooden steps and faced he with no face; a man towering over me with a request for my forgiveness, which I am bounded to give by her gracious majesty.

On this day, I would look out across the excited crowd and peer up at the raven circling overhead. The world would never look so appealing. The smell of the air would strike me so powerfully, as never before. Each breath would hold significance. Every feeling would be heightened, as if it were my first time.

I would hear nothing the priest said as the faceless man helped me to my knees. I would nod in agreement that my crimes against her most gracious majesty deserved my punishment. I would harbour no malice against my queen. She was right to bring this day to my life.

My hands would shake as I grab for the block. My mouth would dry and my weary heart would pound in its final moments with the strength of a boy’s. I would consider that I’d never look up at the sky again. I would never see another raven or another cloud. The sun would never look upon my wrecked body.

The stoney walls, the dank air and the northerly draught are my final comforts in this brutal world. But pity me not as my body a head does lose, in the name of all that is within the heart and will of she who was born to power: never earned; never open for all to achieve.

They came for me, and I have never more grateful been.

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