"She looked at peace (decap)"
By robblu (https://pastebin.com/u/robblu)

URL: https://pastebin.com/3zRvAS6m
Created on: Tuesday 1st of October 2019 12:29:52 AM CDT
Retrieved on: Saturday 31 of October 2020 03:05:48 AM UTC



She looked at peace (decap)
« on: September 30, 2019, 06:18:09 pm »
Quote
The axe came crashing down, with a meaty thud, and Robyn grunted. Emily winced. Christina’s eyes opened wide in shock and horror at what she was witnessing, as Robyn’s blood splashed across her face.
Robyn was gurgling now. Her legs and feet were beginning to kick randomly. Emily turned away, unable to watch. She felt a reassuring hand press on her left shoulder, and the young man leaned in and whispered: ‘Don’t’ worry. I’ll sharpen the axe before we get to you.’

The axe that had lodged in Robyn’s ruined neck. Blood poured from her nose. Her knees and thighs began to bang against the block, rhythmically, like an engine, as if she was trying to walk away without standing up. The old man placed his foot on Robyn’s shoulder, and braced himself, to heave the axe out of her neck. A second swing. And still she had a head. Emily buried her face in her hands.

One more heave, and one more hack, and, at last, it was done.

Robyn’s breasts began to slide down the block, her finally-headless neck leaving a bright, straight trail of crimson on the rough wood.
The young man took her by the feet, and dragged her, unresisting, to where the other headless bodies lay. And then the whetstone whirred.
And the old man looked at Emily.

She caught her breath, settled herself, and nodded. And walked towards the block.
Her shoes soaked up all the others’ blood.

She knelt, and glanced up at the old man, who nodded in return.
And then she bent, and got her first glimpse of the basket. The basket to receive her head.
She had seen four women bend before her; but Robyn’s head had fallen face down, and her hair seemed to cover the entire basket. Emily saw a nose here, an ear there, but mainly masses of Robyn’s auburn hair. She wondered what it would feel like when her own head landed upon it. She wondered if she would feel anything at all.

Then, a deep breath, and she laid her neck on the block. It felt rough, and wet. She felt the edge of cold metal against the back of her neck, and then it was gone, raised high above her.

She closed her eyes. And let go.


Emily’s hand was twitching as the young man grasped her ankles. Her breasts dragged on the scaffold, which caused her shirt to ride up, revealing her navel. She left her own bright trail of crimson as he dragged her, unresisting, to where the other headless bodies lay. They all left the block the same way.

Five headless carcasses slowly cooling. In truth, it was only possible to recognise Christina and Emily now: they were shorter than the others. Although all five women were, of course, now shorter than they had been for many years. Her short stature, and the significant size of her breasts, made Christina’s corpse instantly identifiable; but there was something more pleasing about the small size of Emily’s bosom, rising gently as it sloped away from the bloody flesh and bone of her severed neck.
The remains of the other three girls were less identifiable: interchangeable headless things with big tits.


The executioners began their final task of the morning, which was preparing the five girls’ heads for appreciation and display. The young man began warming a braisier to heat the ‘neck-warmers’: special implements that looked a lot like frying-pans, except with wide, thin sheets of metal in place of the pan. They used them to cauterize the wounds on the girls’ severed necks. There was always something satisfying, he thought, in the sizzling that came when you placed a woman’s severed head down on the neck-warmer. Some executioners were careless, and would singe the underside of the girl’s chin. He took pride in the fact that he had never even singed a woman’s hair: the only thing that cooked was the inside of her neck.

The old man had retrieved the five girls’ heads from the basket, and arranged them, in order of execution, along the wall. Girls could make all kinds of bizarre faces when their heads came off, or as they lay there dying in the basket. This was why it was important for an executioner to prepare her face for proper display, before rigor mortis set in. Some executioners liked to pose their heads in silly or comical ways – crossing their eyes and pouting their lips in a position known as ‘duck-face’ had been all the rage a few years ago – and some men could get very creative with the objects they liked to place into beheaded girls’ mouths. But these two men were traditionalists. They wanted their girls to look like they were finally at rest.

He studied Hannah’s head first. She had smiled nervously at him before he hacked her head off. He remembered the way her nipples had hardened, and she let out a steady stream of urine, once her head was gone. She had thrashed around a lot; and died with a very strange expression on her face. Her eyes had rolled right up, so far that not even the tips of her pupils were still visible. Her jaw had fallen down, and her tongue rolled out, right in the centre of her mouth, almost as if her last intention was to display her tongue piercing. A little dramatic, but not an unpleasing way to display her severed head. Still, he rolled her eyelids down, carefully placed her tongue back insider her mouth, and shut her jaw. Then he used her own saliva on his fingers to arrange her platinum blonde hair. Carefully placing his hands on Hannah’s cheeks, he passed her head to the young man, and soon he heard sizzling.

Holly’s head was different. He thought she had died in an instant. Her body had barely even twitched. She just stayed kneeling there, after the axe sliced down, almost as if she didn’t realise she no longer had a head. But there are times you can tell when a woman died slowly, in the basket, contemplating the oddity of her new existence as a cleanly severed head.
Holly’s lips were tight, her eyes wide open; a fierce expression on her face. She looked like she was daring the world to try and kill her, even after her heart, and lungs, and arms, and legs, and all the rest of her, was cut away. She died fighting.
He paused, and considered leaving Holly’s head to be, allowing her face declare those last thoughts that had echoed through her mind. But then his thumbs reached out and began to knead the furrows from her brow; brushed brown hair from her face; brought her eyelids down. His fingers worked her lips and cheeks; her mouth relaxed.
She looked at peace now.

Christina’s head was similar. An intense expression, her blue eyes piercing. Flecks of blood across her nose and temple.
(Sizzling, again, as Holly’s neck wound burned.)
She had trashed and almost danced; her hands reached up to hold a head no longer there, her fingers wide. Almost as soon as she felt the blade that was slicing through her neck, her head was knocked against Holly’s face, still fiercely fighting. But then Christina settled in the basket, and the rocking stopped. She was looking up.
She saw a chin. A waterfall of auburn hair. And a woman’s tear-stained face.
Robyn was settling her neck upon the block. The warmth and wetness of Christina’s blood, mixed with the stickiness of Holly’s and Hannah’s, felt strange upon her throat.

Christina tried to smile, in solidarity. ‘I’ve just been there. It’s not so bad.’ That was a lie, of course. The utter disorientation of your entire body just being gone, with a ring of fire around your neck that made it difficult to think. But she knew how hard it was to walk, and kneel, and place your neck beneath the axe. How scary it felt not to know, and to have to imagine, what being decapitated would actually feel like.
Christina knew. She had had her head cut off.
She tried to smile. To lend support. ‘It is incredibly different from everything you have imagined.’

And Christina saw the whole thing.
The flash of brilliant silver as the blade caught the sunlight in its swing to meet the nape of Robyn’s neck.
The expression of pure incomprehension on Robyn’s face when the axe lodged inside her neck.
The blood flowed freely on blade, block, breasts, and Robyn’s face.
A spurt, an arc, and Christina felt Robyn’s warm, red blood splash across her face. She was not expecting that. She blinked.

What struck her was the redness of the blood that flew from axe to air when the axe was raised again.
What struck her was the blood that drooled from Robyn’s mouth as she struggled to breathe, while she gurgled on the block.
What struck her was the deafening sound of the second blow, blade meeting flesh and bone, and yet still Robyn had a head, a second wound, and no relief.

Christina’s eyes and mouth widened in shock and horror. Then came the third blow; a fourth head finally rolled; and Christina’s face was covered with Robyn’s hair.

The old man ran his hand along Christina’s eyebrows, her eyelids, and her jaw. Those piercing blue eyes were hidden forever. And the record of her experience was gone.

Robyn, as Christina knew, had died in agony.
Her face was a mess of pain.
The old man worked patiently on her cheeks, her jaws, her mouth.
The young man was gazing at the beauty of Christina’s face. He carefully held her pony-tail away from the heat; and Christina sizzled.

At least the eyes were easy. He brought the eyelids down; and Robyn’s pain was gone.
The young man carefully gathered up her auburn hair, and brought her head down on the heat. Robyn made a sound like bacon. And she never made a sound again.

The old man was pondering Emily. He reached out his hands, and paused. Her eyes and mouth already closed. Her blonde hair pulled tightly back, into a small pony tail that stood well clear of her neck; or would have done, if she had a neck. Her chin, jutting slightly, like it was made to be placed down on a wall, or a table, or a pillow. Like her head had been designed to look better without her body. Like she was made to be beautiful as a severed head.
She looked at peace.