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I Was Guillotined

(From the posthumous diary of Maurice Hebert, 1770–1794)

It’s not as bad as you might imagine. Yes, there is pain at first, a searing heat as if the sun has exploded inside your eyes. Then it is over. Or perhaps I should say it changes. It becomes something else. Not pain, but an unreeling like a clock gone mad.

Damn you, Robespierre!

The episode was not without a touch of humor, for the basket was ill-placed and I collided with the fair edge of the receptacle and we tipped over, spilling me onto the platform with a thump. I rolled toward the audience and all to me was sky crowd platform sky crowd platform sky crowd platform. Over and over until I came to rest facing the gathered throng.

My unexpected appearance at the footlights, so to speak, eyes wide open, mouth formed into a mild grimace and fluids draining, caused a fair amount of commotion, especially among those nearest the platform. Many recoiled at the proximity and some smirked and still others had a look of envy, as if now with one swift blade the head before them had fortuitously avoided the consternation of responsibility, the uncertainties of love, the elusiveness of wealth, and other trappings of modern life.

There was, of course, no