Guilty

YAY!! School is almost over. I want to share with you a short story I wrote for writing class called guilty. Let me know what you think.

My lips trembled as I climbed the rickety wooden steps of the guillotine. Filthy, guilty tears ran down my dirty face without restrain. There was no turning back now, no changing. Only tears.

   Why did the last minutes of life seem like a lifetime in themselves? I felt like a million pounds as my swollen, bloodied bare feet rose above the last step. The French flag, my French flag, waved overhead, as if accusing me of my country’s downfall.

   Every sound was magnified times ten. In the front of the gathering crowd was an old woman, shrieking profanities and accusations through her dried mangled mouth. “Thief, dirty bloody thief!” Guilty…. Her accusations cut into my throbbing heart. Guilty….

   Pitiful cries of a young child rang from the spectators, pleading. “Mummy, no. I don’t want to see him die, Mummy no!” I caught glimpse of the young mother wrenching a hold on the child, pinching him and forcing him down. “Foolish child, this is what will happen to you one day if you keep up your mischief.” The child’s   wails drifted in with the rest of the crowd. 

   These people are here for entertainment, I thought. I blinked unwanted tears from my eyes. Thoughts of the fateful day ran through my aching mind like poison through the veins. A rich man with an oversized wallet, a crowd, a commotion, a wallet in my hands, accusations, arms, all over me, preventing me from escape. Prison. A trial, the one word from the judge’s arrogant mouth that brought me to this platform, put me in these ropes, insured my doom… “Guilty.”

   I heard laughs. Two lads my age stood at the foot of the platform, pointing and mocking my plight. “Get away,” I shrieked through a sudden torrent of tears. They poked at my feet with sticks, tormenting me so I couldn’t bear it. I struggled to free myself from the ropes that bound my wrists, preventing me from ensuring the ruin of the impudent boys. The brick hard arms of a guard held me back. I pushed, but couldn’t free myself. I turned to look at my constrainer, expecting to meet eyes of steel, eyes without mercy, eyes reminding me of my impending guilt.

   Instead, my teary eyes met the opposite. The soldier’s face was laced with kindness and hope.  He leaned to me and whispered these words into my ear; “Vous pouvez être épargné,” You can be saved. All other sounds, the accusations, crying, and shrieking, sounds of death and hopelessness, melted away. I no longer heard them. My ears were tuned only to the words of the guard. “God sent his only son to earth, and He died on a cross.” He said earnestly, his hands cupping my wretched face.  “With his death he paid for the sin you’re about to die for so that you wouldn’t have to pay for it again in eternity. Believe in him, and instead of going to Hell, in just minutes you’ll be in Heaven.” Glorious hope and understanding flooded my dark, oozing heart like water to mud. I understood the words of the soldier, and knew they were true. I gripped his hand tightly and he whispered a prayer into my ear.

   He then squeezed my hand and said, “It’s time. Go with God.” The executioner grabbed me. I didn’t struggle. The crowd grew louder and louder, “Guilty!” they shrieked, but I didn’t hear them. I heard God’s voice calling me. The executioner’s black-gloved hands shoved my head into the wooden half circle. My mind was far away; I was at complete peace. Drums sounded on the platform. The executioner raised his arms to the blade. Peace. His arms came down. Peace. Everything went black, and I heard music. Then this magnificent, glorious, indescribable voice came from the darkness and said, “Not guilty.”