“What is the last thing you remember?”
It was a rhetorical question. My inquisitor didn’t expect, nor want a response. Any answer was irrelevant, his asking merely a formality.
The increasingly unstable rabble was impatient for the spectacle to begin. Rubbish was at the ready, repugnant missiles aimed not only at me, but also my executioner. Should he fail in his sanguinary duties, other heads would roll.
It’s difficult to talk when your neck is literally on a chopping block. Makeshift, the lichen-covered stump was harvested only that morning.
The irony of the two hearts was not lost on me.