Discomfort

There it is – the taste of bile in my throat.

I wish it were mine. The gorge is from my belly, but I owe it all to them, to the looks in their eyes, to the passion and the fire of their fervor. They are united. They are awakened. They are one.

They're going to kill me.

I spit at the crowd, and they howl and spit back. If only saliva were flying, but there's fire and knives among them. The ropes are tight. My eyes burn and my throat cracks and gasps. My tongue is fat and full of the taste of my own acids – at least I can spit it out, the taste of stale bread and old dirt. People dirt. How many men had died in that cell?

Did they ever dust? I doubt it.

The crowd was roaring to its fever pitch, seeking absolution for the sin they were about to commit. It disgusted me. I'd done my crimes, and I would pay, but I was never once blood-thirsty. I drank it down with a look of displeasure and a feeling to match, but that blood was my water and my meal. It was my breath and my fresh light. I killed to live.

They loved it.

The first stone sent electric sparks across my eyes and a trickle of blood soon followed. The sight of it, running slow across my eyeball, made me want to itch it. The discomfort was maddening. I just wanted to wipe it, but I was caught fast, and I really thought, “I will die here today, but someone get this blood out of my eyes!” The frustration was burning a hole through my lungs, and before I knew it, it was more than they could take.

The ropes broke. The crowd surged the pole. They beat me, thrust metal into my meat and bone, bit and tore and screaming my flesh away. Everything cascaded in red like a burst balloon. A swarm of rats couldn't have been more methodical. I was perforated, lacerated, opened and revealed.

I stared at them. They stared back at me. Minutes passed in a red, sticky silence.

I felt no pain. They felt no remorse.

It was over.