The scene was surreal, right out of a Dali painting. No one had expected it or even thought it was possible. In such grim events, there were always heated debates and discussions about why or why not it had to be done, However, this time, it was different; not only for the one involved, but also for the viewers. It was a completely different scene.
They gathered beneath the wooden stage, in silence, none daring to utter a single word of support of condemnation. No one thought it possible, not even in their worst nightmares. It was unfathomable, and all of them hated it. By viewing it, they felt just as guilty as the actual executioner, who was always pardoned. After all, it was not him who issued the sentence, but the judge. Every pair of eyes were partly looking at him, some with fear, others with disgust, but all with the resenting look of those who suffer. They have suffered for a long time, but never did they think something like that possible. Their objection was not uttered, but it was sensed in the way they stood, in the slump of their backs, in the horror in their eyes and the tension of their grimly-extended lips. They were not happy about it, but at the same time, they did nothing. They did not try to stop it or intercept it. They did not utter a word of objection. They just watched as it unfolded before them.

The bride, wearing a white dress, stained with blood. It was hard to tell if it was her own or someone else's, but they knew from his absence that it was his blood. They were all witnesses to their love story as it began and right till it ended. They knew that she would never be in this situation without him trying to rescue her, even if it costed his life. From the look of the blood-stained dress, her bloodied hands and her stained face, it certainly did. The day was full of hope and life at the beginning of it, as the small town began to prepare for the wedding, but their hope was snatched from them, stifled and buried.

They all agreed that they would never forget how she looked. She did not make a sound. She did not scream or cry or plead or utter a single word. She stood on the small wooden step, silent, despondent and frozen, except for her eyes. She surveyed the whole crowd, looking at each person directly. She managed to look at maybe half the attendance before they pushed her off the step. It was usual for the victims to try and claw at the rope squeezing their necks, but she did not do that. Instead, her hands reached out to the crowd, while her body swayed violently from left to right. She wriggled like a trapped fish, with her hands extended, still looking at the crowd. They watched in horror the scene they knew they would never be able to erase from their memory. For some strange reason it took a longer time for her to pass into oblivion. Before she did, she smiled and then her arms went limp, falling by her side, and her eyes closed. She was gone, but her body was still swaying, and for a few minutes, in the silence of their horror, all that was heard was the swish of her satin, bloodied white dress, as it swayed from left to right.


nisaamed said…
Dear Sina,
I would like to contact you, but I couldn't find an email address in your blog. Do you mind sending me an email to sg769@eden.rutgers.edu?
Thank you!
Sina said…
Hey Susana,

May I ask why you want to email me?

nisaamed said…
of course ;) I'm a graduate student in Women's and Gender Studies and I'm writing about the narration of the revolution in personal blogs. I would like to ask you for permission to quote some excerpts of your blog.
I can send you more info in an email.
Have a nice day!

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