The Executioner (story by R.C. Peris)

I could make it easier on them. I could. I could give them drugs while still in their cell and before they were paraded before the angry crowd. The drugs I could cook up from forest mushrooms. Quite a few grow near the edge of my meager land. I could get someone in the crowd to distract them right before I swung the ax so that their attention is diverted from the horror. Of course, that would force me to spend a few cents of my own payment to make the ordeal easier for them. No one would do it for free. Few people have mercy in the midst of a mob. I could say soothing words to them. I could. I could share a prayer or whisper something tenderly. It would give a blank hope for their life and the rest they will get upon death.

I do none of these things. I don’t care about my job and I have no intention of exerting additional energy in the course of my work. I am the town blacksmith and when the court declares that someone should die I am paid two gold pieces to be the executioner. If I didn’t do it the baker, Hans would do it and that would be cruel to the victim. Hans is terrible with a sword and ax. He would hack their necks into shreds and the poor victim would be aware and in pain for the whole ordeal. I make clean and decisive blows. It is over in two seconds.

In winter, my mother-in-law was found dead in her home. My wife found her. The authorities believed she was poisoned. My wife was arrested and was later convicted of the crime. She was sentenced to death. I did not make her ordeal easy. She pleaded with me. Over and over. When her head was on the block she squirmed and this caused my ax to miss the mark. The blade only went part through her neck. I had to strike another blow to separate her head from her body.

The priest was upset. “Why did you make her suffer?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It’s my job.”

You didn’t have to murder your wife,” he said in a high pitched voice.

It’s my job.” I walked home to an empty house, cooked a chop and ate it by the fire with a beer. When evening fell I knew why I was the executioner. It was not a job. It was a passion. A passion that reflected my indifference to humanity. I laughed. I was passionately indifferent. I laughed some more and fell asleep on my bed vacant of my wife.