The Guillotine | ONC 2022

IX

1st December 1793

The pale winter light shone through the window panes covered with little snowflakes and filled my soul with tingling warmth.

I was soaring to the sky like an angel who had always been only a devil for the rest of the world. Facing the end of my revolutionary dreams, I chose loyalty to the man whom I loved instead of my selfish ambitions.

It was stupid. Utterly and absolutely senseless. What fool puts emotions before ambitions?

This was so unlike me, unlike anything I desired before.

Maybe that's why I felt so redeemed by this sacrifice. Maybe that's why I, after a life full of sin and malice, realized that I longed for redemption at all.

It was such a refreshing feeling…

As if a stream of crystal clear mountain water washed through my mind, cleansing it of everything bad I've ever done, of the guilt I suppressed and of my perverted cravings, leaving only emotion that was always pure enough to survive this purgatory.

My love for Armand…

That was the passion that pushed me forward the whole time, forcing me to do and think unspeakable things. That was the passion that made me a criminal in the eyes of some people.

Which meant I was innocent!

I was a Juliette of my own kind, giving up everything for her Romeo!

For once I was no outlaw! I was a martyr of unfortunate love!

I was a goddess that was willing to go under the guillotine for a mere mortal… because she chose him and this choice itself made the mortal a demigod at least.

I sighed and a smile of pure happiness appeared on my face when I looked at Beaumont and said, "No, Beaumont, I don't want you… Armand is too dear to me and if it's my fate to die with him on the scaffolds, I accept such a death with gratitude, because without him I'm as good as dead anyway."

But then, as if fate wanted to punish me for my first good deed, as good deeds are usually punished, there was a knock on the door.

I exchanged a look with Beaumont.

It was one of those moments when you don't dare to admit to yourself what is happening, so you pretend to be clueless… although deep down you have sensed the impending bad news that is about to hit you in the face.

I didn't have to open the door to know that I'd behold a policeman. I didn't have to open the door to know he wasn't here to make an arrest, but only to inform me of a matter that had been settled without me even knowing. I didn't have to open the door to know that Armand was dead.

And yet I did. I opened the door and went through all those macabre procedures that follow when the love of your life is arrested and guillotined without a trial.

I did it, because that's what society expects from you. I pretended sadness, because it was expected of me, though the only thing I felt was anger… and emptiness

Where was my love for him? Where were those burning emotions that made me think I could rise up to the sky and join the angels in their joyous singing? Where was the passion and devotion, surging through my body just moments ago?

Gone. Vanished into thin air just like Armand's soul.

I would have died for him. I would have willingly laid down everything I had for one smile of his, would have followed him to the end of the world if he wanted me to…

… but why should I make such sacrifices for a lifeless corpse?

No, that soulless corpse lying somewhere in a mass grave wasn't worthy of my attention anymore.

So I just wiped the cold tears that lingered on my face as a reminder of times that would never return.

And when the policeman asked me about the character of my relationship with Armand Fontaine I answered simply, "We had none, not any more at least. Long live the revolution!"

With these words that seemed to have appeased the curiosity of the man, I closed the door, leaning on it with my back with a pensive expression.

"Should I go?" Beaumont asked a bit awkwardly and yet without losing that charming flare of audacity that I admired.

"No," I smiled, walked up to him and kissed him passionately.

He would never go.

I wouldn't let him.

I'd never let go of such a precious trophy.

He was now mine and mine he was to remain. My love is worse than the signature written with blood forced on you with the devil.

Only the guillotine can cut the bond between me and them… my men…

Because they don't want to give me up themselves.

They know I'll use them. They know I'll ruin them and then forget them the second they're dead.

And yet they can't let go of me, because they have become addicted.

I am their drug.

I am their adventure.

I am their revolution.

And I am the guillotine that severs their head off in the end.

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