Revised 1/17/2025. Originally written 10/22/2015.
Slice.
Cut.
Shred.
Just once more.
Heavy breathing catches the smell of blood. Sweat drips down her face. She pulls her arm back. Just once more. Swing.
Her opponent falls to the ground, the remainder of her victim’s life essence flowing from them. A final spasm, then motionless. Once a body, now a corpse. They barely put up a fight in the end, as if they knew their end.
The triumphant swordswoman observes the bloodied victim’s final breaths through narrow eyes. She must ensure the job is complete. The swordswoman masks her emotions as best she can, embodying stone or marble, those materials she feels her humanity slowly becoming. Yet the heaviness of her brow carries sympathy, the one emotion to constantly escape her grasp.
Three bodies lay on the ground, the red liquid pooling about them and hydrating the thirsty earth. Eight counts of rape, seven counts of murder, and three counts of theft summed from the three of them. Corpses yes, but perhaps their souls left long ago. Perhaps these kinetic bodies were already dead.
A cotton handkerchief falls on the ground before the swordswoman. She kneels to pick it up, noticing one corner of the handkerchief landed in a small puddle of blood, soaking into the lavender threaded “L” monogram stitched there. Squeezing her eyes, she wipes the sweat from her face with the cloth, her overheated insides and the tightness of her chest not knowing the battle is won for the time being.
The swordswoman stands and examines her sword, quickly turning from the sight of blood, both worn on its blade and seen in its reflection. She shakily exhales and trudges toward the one who threw her the handkerchief. Without looking at his face, she knows he wears a smile.
In a sudden fit of rage, her fist targets the man’s abdomen. Her eyes widen as her legs are knocked out from under her and three brawny men tackle her to the earth, restraining her arms behind her back. She feels the sword’s guard dig into her ribs. She bites her lip as the metal cuffs tighten around her wrists, cutting into her skin.
Snow begins to fall, a powdery flake landing on her nose. Refreshingly cold to the touch. A chill courses through her as the heat dissipates from her body, the brisk winter air catching up to her.
The men pull her to her feet and lead her through the stone tunnels. Behind them, one man picks up her sword, a few others pick up the bodies. She hears their struggles, their complaints of the smells, their laughter as they talk of the deads’ weight, joking that they should be starving them before a fight, it would make their jobs easier. She closes her eyes, refusing to process that which is said, wondering how stone or marble-like they must be on the inside.
The two men gripping her arms lead the swordswoman back to her cell, her feet dragging along the cold earth, bumping along as sporadic patches of cobblestone turn to brick beneath them.
“When are you gonna learn?” the one asks in a raspy voice.
They throw her in and slam the cell door closed before locking it. She sits up, brushing the dust and dirt from her hands and folds her legs beneath her, keeping her eyes closed all the while. She waits about a minute, for it takes some time to secure three locks, before opening her eyes.
Though her eyes have opened, nothing seems to have changed. The image before her contains nothing more than what appeared when her eyes were shut. At least with closed eyes she could create an image if she so pleased. The dark, cold world before her leaves no room for fantasizing or daydreaming. There is no dream that could mask or disguise her reality.
Despite the sights lacking, what truly bothers her are the noises. Crying and groaning, swearing and pleading. The other inmates call out in agony, whether asking for death because they know it would come anyways or declaring their innocence as if they figured the guards never heard it before. The swordswoman sits in silence. She accepted long ago that no call to the void will better her situation, only provide more cause for the guards to punish for incorrigible behavior.
A chill runs up her spine causing her entire body to shiver. The swordswoman slowly raises her hands to rub her biceps. She exhales into her palms and quickly rubs them together, hoping the friction may start a fire with which to warm herself. Though the weather continues to get colder, her work will not stop.
When she first arrived, a chill wind blew, and a thin frost covered the earth. Her opponent was in bad condition from a duel earlier that day, her prominent arm missing a large chunk of flesh, blood loss becoming a growing problem. However, their fight began as scheduled. To call it a fair fight would be an unfair statement in and of itself. Not injured, the only risk she suffered being frostbite, the swordswoman’s odds of winning were high. But she also had another advantage over her opponent that she would not learn of until later.
After a few strokes, her opponent fell to the ground. As she lay there, continuing to lose blood at a rapid pace, she yelled out, “Kill me!” Whether to her or God, the swordswoman will never know for after the call the woman fainted. Two counts of kidnapping. Three counts of premeditated murder, the bodies found belonging to the children kidnapped and her four-year-old son. The heinous act enough cause to end her, out of spite and hatred for a foul being. But, as the swordswoman watched the woman’s body fight for survival despite her wishes, she saw a familiar face. One in pain, suffering a gargantuan weight which was placed upon her. Did she choose this weight? Was she already dead? Is it possible for one to die multiple times?
The swordswoman tightly grasped the hilt of her sword and cleanly sliced through her neck. Where she found the strength or skill to do so was not a matter of experience, for which she lacked with this action, but instinct alone. An instinct which told her to end this woman’s suffering at all costs. With her last glance at the dead woman, she noticed the face had completely changed, as if her memories were being projected, the illusion of bumps appearing on her arm for a brief second.
The world had played judge and jury, her role was executioner. Of course, that title could be taken from her any day. One loss is all it would take to lose everything. Though, she questions what exactly everything is, for her life alone seems too low a price.
As she sits on the hard, cold stone, the swordswoman understands the longer she survives the more her chances for survival grows. Not only through experience but through the fears and doubts of others when the rumors of her strength spread. The many she faces have no room within their hearts left for more despair or suffering. Her greatest advantage. The one thing the swordswoman continues to cling to that the others quickly abandon, as if the walk to Hell strips them of it. Yet, she’s walked through Hell for months and still refuses to let go.
She exhales and her breath condenses into a mist.
From her first kill to the dead body that fell earlier in the day, the swordswoman never once felt spite or anger when swinging her sword. Fear always came first, followed by anxiety and dread, but never hate. As they gasped for their last breaths, sympathy creeped in. Pity. A wish to end the suffering because she knew it was never going to get better.
The judge and the jury would never admit to any fault in their punishment, their conviction as strong as their desire to preserve their own lives. As executioner, the swordswoman wanted to believe she freed them, that they’d no longer suffer. Killing them was not unjust by any means, given their punishment was signed by the hands of Justice. The same hands sentenced her, and yet, she fears to meet the same fate. As executioner, she must put her life on the line to preserve it.
So she continues to fight her way through Hell. The title of Executioner her only route to survival.
So just once more.
Rip. Slash. Pierce.
Once more.
