I watched his face.
The play of emotions twisted his features into a grotesque mask as he tried to grasp what was happening. His face seemed to melt as he showed disbelief, then shock, anger, and hatred.
Never a good card player, I hoped my face wasn’t as animated. For weeks before his trial, I practiced in a glass, holding tight to a façade of nonchalance when I wanted to cry out from the roof tops. No one could see my inner turmoil, nor know my role in his undoing.
I stood behind a pillar in the church chancery, listening as barristers presented evidence. Under the sheer weight of proof, he was unable to refute the allegations. The case against him ironclad, the magistrate’s justice was swift. He couldn’t evade responsibility this time, couldn’t manipulate the outcome to his benefit at the expense of others.
The tide of public sentiment turned against him, and they clamored for an exhibition. There hadn’t been a hanging for far too long, and the people were bored. What better than to see someone who stood on such a high pedestal come crashing down, his neck snapped by the hangman’s noose.
When his time to swing comes, I’ll be in the front row where he can see me, the cruelty he inflicted clear on my face. He will know his lies returned to him, and he alone will realize that I am the one who delivered him to the gallows.
He should be proud of all I accomplished. I did learn from a master.