13 Steps

13 Steps

Every day I watch people die. Every day I watch them walk up these stairs. Every day I put the noose around their neck. And every day I see them fall.
         People accused of being witches walk up these stairs. I am the executioner. I put the nooses around necks; I pull the lever and watch them fall. Some die quick, their necks broken when the noose grabs them. Some take long minutes to die. The crowds soak it all in, cheering and booing. For three pounds a week I sand on the top of this platform and watch as people are dragged up here, bound and gagged. Witches, all of them, as they've been accused.
          I sit here now on the steps those people walk up. They are pine. The surface of the wood is rough, covered in splinters. The structure is unsteady. It holds just three bodies- mine, the witch, and whoever gets to drag the witch up the stairs. Even then it sways, threatening to collapse. These steps… they are the last those people ever take.
         The rope in my hands is coarse. The fibers rub across my palm as I pull the rope. I can see the necks of the people I've hung. Some were long and smooth, some were short or hairy. It never mattered which neck- only that it was the one being hung. I put the noose around the neck, then pull the rope tight. Then I take a step back. Some struggle, others stand very still. One woman screamed until she couldn't scream anymore. I will never forget the sight of them all. I will never forget the sound, either.
          My hand slides over the lever. It too, is made of pine, but it has been sanded. It has been made nice and smooth. In this case, the executioner doesn't have to worry about getting a splinter. My head is covered so they don't have to see my face. The mask is heavy, made of iron. I hate it. I stand up here in the hot sun, sweating with that mask on, waiting for the other man to give the signal to pull the lever. I can't wipe the sweat from my forehead or my own neck until I leave the stand. I take it off, use my sleeve to wipe away sweat, then put it under my arm to be put away until the next day, until the next hanging.
          I pull the lever. The fall is the worst part. The sickening crack of the bones in each neck make me cringe. The silent falls are even worse. Those bodies will flop around on the noose for a long time, trying to suck in every breath of air they can before death takes them. The crowd screams its protests or its happiness. There is no crowd now. There are no screams, no cheers, no cries of protest. I am alone. I like the silence. Death is easier in silence.