The Executioner's Wife

this is legit so beautiful




The Executioner’s Wife

With a low, “THUD,” the executioner’s axe hit the hardwood surface beneath the once continuous neck of his victim. The blade of the axe made yet another scar in the wood which the blood almost instantly investigated, just as it did after every formation of a new scar. The executioner watched as the blood sprayed from the neck of his victim onto his axe and flow down onto the wood. He lifted his axe from the wood with force and wiped it off, ending his day with only one decapitation.

Mary chopped potatoes with her small stiletto and added them to the cast iron cauldron of stew. Her husband, the executioner, would be home shortly and she was preparing dinner. After adding her ingredients, she sat back down and began her embroidery. She effortlessly wove the needle in and out of the fine fabric, and almost immediately created beauty from nil.

The executioner walked through the door and placed his axe next to the door, and Mary, slightly startled, stood up quickly and dropped her needlework onto the floor. She bent her head down, left the fabric, and greeted her husband with an embrace. Her soft and sensitive hands passed over his strong and dense muscles. His thick arms easily but reluctantly surrounded his wife. They released and he sat at the table. She served the stew, sat at the table, and they enjoyed dinner and conversation with one another.

After finishing dinner, they retired to their bedroom. Mary reached the bed first and lay on her back; her husband climbed on top of her as he always did. He began rhythmically thrusting, as deep as he could go, as shallow as he could go. Mary felt some pain but nowhere near as much as the first weeks of their marriage. Earlier in the marriage she recalled watching a stallion mounting a mare and thrusting in the same manner. They finished, and he rolled onto his back. Mary laid her dainty hand on his chest, and she whispered words of passion and love.

The executioner lay numb, he felt confused by the feelings his wife was verbalized. He thought of the man kneeling with his neck exposed and vulnerable. He thought of the day in front of him: three criminals. Mary never heard exactly what her husband thought or even experienced in his day, but before she sliced any potatoes on this day, she attended the public execution. She witnessed the executioner work, and later welcomed him home.

She sat in bed, thinking, imagining the sight she had seen earlier the same day. She slowly crawled from bed after what seemed like hours. The executioner remained still in bed, breathing deeply and heavily. She sat in the chair where she did her needlework with the executioner’s axe in hand. Mary held the axe still between her thighs and with a slow breath slid her tiny wrist along the blade. Her blood poured down from her scars to the axe, then onto her needlework.


i love suicide