Insurrection [On Hold]

21 Once More at the End of the Rope

Playlist:
The Coney Island Waltz}
Till I Hear You Sing} ~~Love Never Dies
Why Does She Love Me?}
The Point of No Return~Phantom of the Opera

The metal doors creak as they open, and I walk through their threshold in a haze. My hair and cloak billow around my shoulders and ankles. The bluish gray sky reminds me of a fog I can see through. Around the edges of the courtyard soldiers stand rigid on top of raised platforms that run along the fence. In the middle of the yard, hangs a single rope from the gallows. A single rope to end an entire life.

So barbaric. We could put him to sleep and then kill him, but no, he has to feel everything and be watched in his suffering.

Everything is brand new. The last execution held here didn't proceed as planned. The prisoners—rebels— escaped and ravaged the courtyard, killing many of our soldiers. My brother, Killian, pushed me down behind a fence that ran along a viewing pavilion constructed on the old platform.

Time slows down and reverses, and I can see the rebels running to meet the soldiers. Guns crack.

Shouting.

Screaming.

To my right a gun fires, the bullet tearing through a female soldier's chest. Blood splatters across my cheek, landing on my lips and dripping into my mouth, the metallic taste tainting my tongue. I turn away, watching Killian and Samuel leap from the platform, landing on the balls of their feet in a crouch.

Their heads snap up. Grabbing their guns from their holsters, they run toward me.

I close my eyes and open them, and they are all gone. Instead my father stands before me, his chin jutting up. He stares me down, his arms at his sides pulling back his shoulders. Gale stands at his left. Next to both of them are the gallows.

I try tossing my neck back to show him clearly what he did to my face, but the motion causes a wound at the base of my neck to stretch and the scab to flake. I grit my teeth as I stumble forward.

All these men and women watching me are thinking how weak I am. Behind their stern faces and cold exteriors, they're probably laughing to themselves.

But I'm not weak and nothing will make me weak again, not after today.

Silently I take my spot on the right side of my father. I fold my hands behind my back, letting my cloak whip at my legs. It's the only thing that feels real right now.

We view the metal doors I came through, waiting. I glance at the gallows. The executioner has not arrived yet. Looking back where I should, I allow a breath to escape past my barely parted lips. It appears white in the cold morning air before vanishing.

The doors groan and between them stands a slouched, bloody Nate, his wrists and ankles chained. He meets my eyes, and I break contact quickly. The two men who flank him drag him forward.

They bring him toward us and drop him at my father's feet who peers down at him, his head tilting side to side. He nudges Nate's knee with the top of his polished boot.

"You know why you're here," my father says.

Nate lifts his head, panting. Dry patches of crusted blood cover his face, while fresh blood drips from his nose and around his lips. "Because I was trying to do the right thing for our country."

My father jams his boot into Nate's stomach, causing Nate to keel over. I grit my teeth and imagine my feet are blocks of lead, all so I don't bend down and help him.