swing

The morning after I killed her would-be assassin, her father paid me a visit, not to thank me, not to apologize that I had to do what I had done, but to promise me that whoever was responsible for this would hang for it. I think I was supposed to be comforted by the idea, but it seemed so pointless. Her assailant was barely older than I was, and he bled out on the marble while the guards shouted and my friend cried and I wondered why I wasn't crying, wondered why no one would help him. Surely he was no longer a threat?

Over the following days they all treated me (and my sister, mostly because none of them could be bothered to distinguish between us) as if I had done something remarkable, as if I wanted more attention and more responsibility because my friend was in danger and I protected her without thinking, without planning, without--anything, really. I didn't cry then, either. None of it felt real. Part of me wondered if I was still there in the hallway, if this wasn't just some dream I'd had.

It was when they found some friend of the attacker's who, they said, was in on the plan, when they had us go out to the gallows to watch him die, that I finally cried. He had the same dazed look in his eyes I'd seen in the mirror ever since, that sense that none of it was real, because accepting that this was reality now was unthinkable.

There was no fear, no protest, as they put the hood over his face, or the rope around his neck. Even when they dropped the world out from under him, he didn't struggle. He kicked once or twice, as if trying to find land, then went absolutely still, except for a very slight swing back and forth, as the crowd jeered.