Page 2 of Because I Killed Him
“You think it’s hard for him to kill other Greens?” I ask.
Dad grunts. “If it is, he knows better than to show it. Every low-citizen knows better.”
The words cut deeper than a guillotine blade ever could. I don’t hate my green blood—I never have—but I resent that it makes me feel inferior. As a low-citizen, I have a will of my own, yet no freedom to exercise it. The only freedom I have is to let the high-citizens tear out my spine and beat me with it.
“Here comes the preening peacock.” Dad turns up the television volume as a young man in a pinstripe suit joins the executioner on the platform. His face draws every eye like a stage light, and when he smiles, his teeth gleam beneath his boxed Chevron mustache. Hillaire says Benjamin Bogart has the highest ratings of any media pundit because he’s smart, but judging by his fan sites and stalkers, I think it’s because he’s handsome.
“Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Good day, my friends.” Bogart throws his arms wide. “Welcome to another week’s end, when our great and glorious Civilized World rebalances the scales of justice by purging the unvirtuous. Welcome to Bloody Sunday!”
The crowd erupts in applause.
My breath catches as the broadcast drones ascend and pull back, revealing the entire expanse of the Guillotine Yard. The central platform sits at the heart of a four-story amphitheater, with tiered seating arranged in concentric circles. The spectators—tens of thousands—appear like a mosaic, each a colorful part of a glittering, thunderous whole. The broadcast drones avoid filming the fourth level, as if it doesn’t exist.
Bogart salutes the cameras with a practiced smile before introducing the three low-citizen groups. He begins with his own, the Purples, arranged along the bottom tier like a living art gallery. Even from a distance, their beauty distracts me from my unease. The women’s eyes seem to call out like daydreams, and the men move as if the sun shines a little brighter wherever they go.
“It’s a wonder these bastards make it past their bedroom mirrors in the morning,” Dad mutters.
I force a weak smile, still staring. Every detail of the Purples’ bodies looks meticulously crafted, genetically engineered in labs to dominate the worlds of art, fashion, and entertainment.
Bogart lingers on the Purples a moment longer before moving to the second tier, where the Oranges sit. His smile thins at the sight of their plain, unremarkable faces, as if their lack of beauty offends him. The Oranges are less enjoyable to look at, I’ll admit, but Dad says they’re smart enough to talk a bullet out of a gun.
Bogart signals for the cameras to move on with a snap of his fingers. I stand taller, and when the third tier comes into view, filled with the Greens, a spark of pride runs through me. We’re built for strength, stealth, and heightened senses—everything the Civilized World expects of soldiers or law enforcement. With the low crime rate, most of us end up in sports arenas, earning our glory through physical prowess.
The broadcast drones scatter like a flock of birds, capturing close-ups of low-citizens in their finery. Men in black tailcoats sip brandy from crystal-cut glasses while placing bets as if they’re at the races. Who will die with honor? Who will beg for mercy? Women in jewel-toned gowns whisper behind feather fans, their eyes fixed on Benjamin Bogart through gold binoculars. Almost everyone, from the young to the old, smokes cigars and pipes, though cigarettes are most common. Once considered unhealthy, tobacco is now a symbol of our victory over disease.
“This evening, we are honored by the presence of numerous distinguished individuals,” Bogart continues. “From politicians to celebrities, professors to business magnates, these figures lead by example, consistently demonstrating the importance of the two great virtues:civility and obedience. My friends, to those watching from afar, witness the life that awaits if you, too, are virtuous.”Bogart gestures to the amphitheater. “And the death that awaits if you are not.” He gestures to the guillotine.
As the crowd breaks into applause, Bogart’s eyes lift to the sky. The cameras are zoomed in too closely to show the entire amphitheater, but I know he’s looking at the fourth level, where the high-citizens sit.
The Blues.
Bogart clears his throat and nervously brushes his mustache with his thumb. He signals to someone off-camera, and a moment later, the orchestra begins. Violins pierce the air with a sharp, stabbing sound, followed by the deep resonance of cellos, violas, and double basses. The orchestra swells into a harsh, mournful march that reverberates through the soles of my feet. It’s my first time hearingThe Last Walk, but I know it by reputation; it’s a song reserved solely for executions and death duels.
The broadcast drones cut back to Bogart, showing him standing with his feet planted wide, from an overhead shot. “And now, my friends,” he shouts, “I invite you all once again to witness the consequence of defiance, of disobedience. It is a brutal consequence, to be sure, but ajustone… An uncivilized death for an uncivilized crime.”
The music swells as the condemned arrive. Forty-nine low-citizens are led forward, their hands bound with motion-sensing cuffs designed to shock them if they try to escape. Each low-citizen wears a formal execution suit or gown, pure white so the blood will be visible. My eyes drift to the rings on their thumbs, each one indicating their blood color. There isn’t a single Blue among the group, but I’m not surprised. High-citizens rarely face execution, and when they do, it’s never turned into a public spectacle.
“Are all of these low-citizens Heretics?” I ask Dad as the cameras track their pale, terror-stricken faces.
“Yes.” He looks at me, his expression conveying that he wants me to understand what he’s saying, not just hear it. “Every criminal gets the guillotine, Loredana. But Heretics… they’re the only ones who get it on live television. Bloody Sunday might seem like trashy entertainment for the masses, but it’s not. It’s a warning against treason.”
Judging by the execution rate, the warning seems to be having the opposite effect. Today, there are forty-nine Heretics, and last week, there were nearly sixty. It makes me wonder whether they fear death at all orwhether their treasonous beliefs are so strong that they see it as a price worth paying. The thought unsettles me because I can’t imagine dying for an idea. The only thing I can see myself dying for is my family.
One of the Heretics, a petite, freckled girl who’s tenth in line, looks only slightly older than me. Her eyes keep darting toward a clean-shaven, middle-aged man at the front. With their deep-set eyes and curly reddish hair, they appear related. Still, the father refrains from acknowledging his daughter. Instead, he stares at the guillotine with his teeth clenched, his expression as tight as a fist.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Bogart says with a sweeping gesture, “it is with great honor and glorious pleasure that I introduce you to Bloody Sunday’s only recurring character. To some, he is a friend; to others, a foe. But to the condemned, he is known as the black hood… the headsman… theexecutioner.”
The applause roars.
The broadcast drones turn toward the executioner as he approaches the Heretics, carrying a small, gold box. The lid is cracked open, revealing a pile of neurotoxin pills inside. One pill is enough to kill a dozen men, but the death is swift and painless, offering a merciful alternative to those too afraid to face the guillotine.
The executioner moves along the line of Heretics, pushing a neurotoxin pill into each open mouth. “You who are condemned to die may now do so,” he says, “with courage or with cowardice.”
The Heretic father spits the pill onto the platform and grinds it under his boot. Nodding to his daughter, he urges her to do the same. The girl’s hands tremor as she obeys, tears burning in her eyes like chemical smoke. She’s young, probably raised on her father’s fanaticism. Still, it’s hard to feel sorry for her when I remember the media coverage of Heretic attacks: bombs planted on crowded sidewalks and in busy cafes, aimed at corrupt Blues but killing far more innocent bystanders, most of them low-citizens like us. I recall images of teenagers torn apart in theater rows, and any pity I might have dissolves. The Blues are tyrants, yes, but Dad says that in their attempt to overthrow the Blues, the Heretics became what they were trying to destroy.
By the timeThe Last Walkconcludes, the executioner has finishedadministering the neurotoxin pills. Half of the Heretics crush the pills beneath their feet, while the others discreetly spit them into their palms. The executioner discards the empty box, then grabs the Heretic father by one arm and leads him toward the guillotine.
The amphitheater falls silent. The executioner instructs the Heretic father to lie on a gold bench, his neck positioned beneath the suspended blade. As the yoke clicks shut around his head, the broadcast drones amplify the ragged sound of his breathing. The executioner’s movements are gentle, almost tender, as if tucking a child in for bed, and the sight turns my stomach.
