Four Letters

The crowd had been building since noon. People were scrambling to complete their errands and meet the deadline. The event was a nuisance, long reviled by the public as unnecessary. The seasons changed, lives continued, but that looming blade on the field was a constant in the community. A trio of siblings giggled among themselves as they played with the metal collars around their necks, pointing at the guillotine and feigning overdramatic deaths. Their mother silenced them with a wide-eyed stare and continued the conversation she was having with one of her neighbors.

“You were saying, Karen.”

“I think it’s someone prominent. Most times, they’re a little lax with the attendance policy, but I swear everyone in town has to be here. The bleachers are practically full.” From their position on the field, the two women swiveled themselves around to get a better look at the entire stadium. There were scant seats left and bodies kept appearing at the entrances.

“They’re so lucky, getting to stretch out over that giant field. Meanwhile, the rest of us are forced to pack ourselves in the nosebleeds.” The comment came from an impatient teen who had been whisked from soccer practice, arguably the best part of his day. His accompanying friend remained silent as she looked through the ocean of people around her. The two of them eventually gave up on finding a seat and joined the other fashionably late attendants at the nearest railing. They leaned over the precipice in muted curiosity, trying to pinpoint familiar faces to eliminate any potential victims in their social circle. “Why can’t they just tell us ahead of time?”

“You’re worried that it’s someone you know, right?” He nodded to his friend. “There you go. It’s the fear of wondering, the uncertainty. They use it as a method of control.”

“You’re starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist. Better watch out or that collar of yours is going to light up and we’ll both be in trouble.”

The girl brushed her index finger along the cool metal. “I haven’t said a forbidden word or made an inappropriate gesture. I’m within my rights. And speaking of trouble, how did you manage to get past the checkpoints with that shirt?”

The boy whistled. “You would have loved the theatricality. I was detained for a half-hour before they told me the skull was small enough to pass. They figured it wasn’t prominent enough on the shirt to offend anybody, so I was released in time for second period.”

The pair continued their bout of conversation as the number of people around them grew. From the platform of the guillotine scowled the officiator of the event. He didn’t like this spectacle of gore any more than the average citizen, but he was regrettably a part of the machine and as such received a fair number of hateful expressions. He averted his eyes and chose to focus on the perfect square cut into the center of the platform. The star of the show would soon rise from that steel trap and relinquish themselves to retribution. He looked at the sky for a brief reprieve, sighing at the sunlight bathed in azure. “Even the weather doesn’t want to cooperate.”

“What was that sir?” The officiator’s assistant was lurking behind him, tending to his files, when the statement caught his attention.

“It’s always a little easier with gloomy weather. Who wants to ruin a nice day with a beheading?” The rhetorical question left an abyss of silence between the two that was only eliminated after the officiator returned to the crowds. He preferred the hatred of the people to the judgement of his subordinates. Both believed him wildly incompetent and informal, but one was far more honest about their feelings than the other. Expanding his range of sight to the outer layers of the field, he spotted a beacon of hope. “Finally, a distraction!”

The monitors littered around the stadium sprung to life as a man with an imposing figure entered the field. People screamed with delight at the one highlight of the day: the Executioner. Projectiles of support were hurled at him as he walked past. The name “Danson” was blasted in gleeful repetition. Under the cloak of smiles and courteous waves to the audience, he felt nothing but revulsion. He usually bore the weight of his role in humble silence, but the sound of praise directed at a butcher made him grimace, if only for a few seconds. He briefly looked down at his chiseled, bronzed body and sighed. The Danson brand was merely a diversion fabricated to quell the enraged masses long enough to deliver justice. The hints of lust in the eyes of the public always made him squirm, but the larger number of people today made him feel even more violated. A woman stepped out of one of the rows and approached him, begging for an autograph. She held out a heart-shaped locket with his picture nestled inside. On the back were five words that almost made him shriek in frustration: “My head belongs to Danson.” He begrudgingly initialed the trinket and quickened his pace to his spot next to the guillotine.

The momentary bout of celebration came to a swift end as a familiar tolling sounded from the stadium’s speakers. The platform came alive with mechanical sounds and the perfect square rose. Each monitor was focused solely on the movement, capturing the first reveal of the mystery criminal. The sight of her stepping out of the enclosure inspired dozens of conversations among the people. A prominent businesswoman and a pillar of the community, she addressed her surroundings with quiet dignity. She regarded Danson and the officiator with pursed lips and downcast eyes. “Bring in the family.” The officiator’s words brought forth a stone-faced middle-aged man, a grim teenager, and an inconsolable little girl. They were ushered to the front of the field by a line of soldiers. Together, the family walked to the platform and said their goodbyes. The woman regarded each of them with teary-eyed embraces and hushed conversations.

She turned to face the officiator. “Let’s get this over with.” She gave her family a final smile before waving them away. “Be strong.”

With one motion, the officiator had the family placed in front of the platform by the soldiers. His urge to get lost in a bottle intensified when he saw the little girl eyeing the basket by the guillotine. He positioned himself at the podium next to the woman, breathing deeply into the microphone before speaking. “We gather here for the purpose of justice; for the sake of maintaining a proper society. The woman next to me has committed a great offense against the state, embracing the use of forbidden words and wielding them as a weapon to harm her very own customers. The event I speak of was captured by the street camera outside the criminal’s place of business. Please train your eyes on the monitor nearest to you.”

Every screen in the stadium went black for a few seconds, coming back to life with a new, grainier setting. There was an altercation building between two women outside a bookstore. Voices were being raised, accusations were being made, and the woman in shackles on the platform bowed her head in frustration. When she looked up to readdress her adversary, she opened her mouth and called the woman something that made the audience gasp. The officiator and Executioner flinched at the word as it blared through the speakers. The video abruptly ended, and the monitors returned their attention to the most hated woman in the stadium. The people no longer looked at her with sympathy and questioning. Their collective scorn was insignificant to her, though, as she focused on the disappointed looks of her family.

The officiator readjusted his mic and tapped it as a polite gesture to recapture the stadium’s attention. “As per tradition, we will give the criminal a chance to make a final statement.” He unhooked the mic from its stand and brought it to the woman’s level. She regarded the audience with a warm smile, nearly eclipsing the radiance of the sun that blanketed the platform. Her expression quickly turned sour, and her mouth opened to ejaculate a string of profanities that caused a second wave of hysteria. Her murderous eyes never left the people, even as her head was lowered and pushed through the hole. Even though the mic had been cut, her words still reached a large number of the people, carried by her anger. Danson took a final look at the pitiful creature beneath him before making the move. It was a clean cut that precipitated a round of celebration from everyone, apart from the five individuals in and around the platform. The woman’s family wept silently, too afraid to show the true volume of their emotions. They were almost grateful for the bevy of cheers that drowned their cries. Danson and the officiator bore apathetic expressions as they faced the masses. The word, “CANCELLED” blossomed from the monitors in thick red lettering, signaling the end of the event.

Mothers took their children home, students returned to school, and those with the most treacherous jobs stayed behind to continue their duties. The woman’s family had long disappeared into the shadows, too ashamed and terrified to exit with the rest of the population. All that remained was the head, the guillotine, and the platform, all of which were being tended. Danson held up the woman’s head and placed it in a glass container, sending it off to the state building for preservation, where it would join the others as an informational exhibit titled: “Think Before You Speak.”