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All My Heads Come Back To Me (short fiction)

21.05.12

They say I should do the interview with the television lady. That it will help humanize the job, and thus the Law. I don’t know why. It is as human as anything else, whether I comment on it or not, but I suppose I have to. Most simply, my job is no different than the man who delivers the packages. Merely a task in life which must be carried out by someone. That I carry out a task most would find physically revolting or mentally impossible, or that I work for the Department of Superior Justice, an institution that most people fear, I do not consider a burden, any more than I consider my allergies a burden. Merely a part of life that one must endure. What must be done must be done, as it is decreed by the Laws of Existence. Our powerful Instigator – creator is too magical a word for me, forgive me if you must – is the One whom nature bows down to, which I humbly do in my job as executioner.

Currently I am training my youngest son to follow me into the profession. My eldest son is weak and rebellious, he only cares for rap music and his clothing; but my youngest is a good boy, the best of boys, the joy of any father and thankfully so, since this job is a family tradition. To separate the heads from the bodies of the condemned, I use an axe (three hundred years old, it is said), with a long and overly curved blade, which my father wielded in more than a thousand acts of justice during his service. The dark wooden handle is worn into the shape of his palm, oiled with the secretions of his skin.

Source: San Diego Reader (blog)