I hate circles.
I hate how I never know where I started when I trace the circumference with my eyes. I hate that that too, has to be a cycle.
I hate cycles. Monday, to Sunday, then it’s Monday again. Nothing makes me sicker. Because they never existed until we humans fashioned them. We create cycles, then complain that they oppress us. Monday, to Sunday, then it’s Monday again. Twelve a.m., to eleven fifty-nine p.m., then it’s midnight again.
I hate the constructs we’ve made around time, because right now, I feel like my time is running out. Fast. Locked inside the shed, the stench of two-day-old blood creeps up my nose, waiting to enter. I hate that I know how many days it’s been since he died, but I’m cursed with the knowledge, anyway. I’d watched as the cycle continued; daylight, no daylight, then daylight again.
My stomach screams at my legs to move for food. My legs scream at my heart to quit fearing what my brain doesn’t know. My heart screams at my brain to quit making it feel anything. But my brain screams back, “Stop beating, heart.” There is a bang on the aluminium. Two bangs. The sorry metal shakes. My spirit shakes. They’re coming for me. Gears are turning, and burning, inside my head. I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.
“Step out now, or we shoot!”
My heartstrings, I feel them tearing. I wish my legs would move, surrendering the rest of my body. But they throw a tantrum; they say no. I bury my face into the corpse’s neck, and take it all in; the smell, the memories, the sound, of death. They break the door and march in. I hear the beads on their wrists hit against each other, the metals on their ankles clang against one another. I have no strength to fight as they drag me out, and set the guillotine before me. My heartstrings, they are tearing.
My eyes meet my mother’s, expressionless. “What did he do to you?”
I see a circle around me. Of people. From my town. I can’t see the looks on their faces, but I know they want me to die too.
I’m seventeen, and tired. Of this place. These people. These cycles, and this new corpse, of my own father. Sounds of stifled cries hit my ear, and I look up at the circle in the sky; white, and bright, and useless. My execution has come too soon, but there’s no turning back now. My legs don’t know how to run. “Forward, child, to your death.” The executioner looks away from me as he speaks, daring the crowd silently, to say a word, or mumble a cry. “Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. He who commits patricide, must die too.” Calm sweeps over me. My shoulders fall. The cycle is ending. The cycle of life. I look up to catch my mother’s eye, and feel the warmth of the cold guillotine. “Goodb-”