The Executioner

“My dear son,

As I write to you today, the tenth time this year, in the dim candlelight, my hands are shaking. They always do – just before. I don’t have much time, it is almost dawn. I glance at the door in front of me, wondering why it is that I am scared. I can see the strong padlock, protecting me from the man inside. It is he who should be scared. Yet he is not. I can hear him pounding the door. The padlock will hold strong I know but the violence of his blows and the violence with which he will go shortly, are not pleasant to contemplate. The candle’s nearly burnt out but it will be dawn soon. I wanted you to know that your father is not the evil man they may have told you about. I am only doing my job, the job that pays for your tutor, your fine clothes and your meals. It isn’t what I would have chosen. No, the axe is heavy, the aftermath messy. It is not a job for the weak-hearted. I hate it. Yet, here I am.”

I throw the stub of the pencil against the wall, crumple my letter into a ball as the candle blows out and step up to the window to watch the sun rise, as my helpers walk in to march the prisoner to the gallows where I will be waiting for him with my axe.