“Thomas Gainsborough, it is the court’s wishes that you, for such grievous offends against the State will be drawn from the prison to the place of execution upon an hurdle or sled, where you shall be hanged till you be half dead, and then taken down, and quartered alive; after that, your members and bowels will be cut from your body, and thrown into a fire, provided near hand and within your own sight, even for the same purpose.” My petite, ten year old body, was curled up against the much muscular one of my father, fearful features graced my face as it pressed to the nape of his neck in an attempt to block out the sights and sounds emitting from around us. No more than two days had passed since my uncle Thomas had been found guilty of treason against the Queen, for poisoning some of Her Majesty’s closest advisers, and already we were stood upon the square in Surrey. A newly built scaffold had been placed before the eager villagers, most of them eager for the entertainment my uncle’s execution would bring them. The priest and executioner had already taken their places, the latter making certain the noose of my uncle’s hanging rope had been tied correctly. I felt my father’s arms tighten around me as the sound of approaching hoof beats caught his attention, his face as pale as a corpse. Even his ginger beard seemed to have lost its colour. I raised my head to look towards the scaffolds, seeing the weakened and injured form of my uncle climbing the stairs, his jaw quivering violently, as if he was about to cry. “Do not look, my Nora. You will have night terrors.” My father barely managed to choke out the words, and I tugged affectionately on his beard, placing a kiss upon his scruffy cheek, but did not heed his warning. Uncle Thomas had always been good to us, to me, and I would not let him feel alone and abandoned on his last day. I owed him that much. “I beg you all to pray for me,” Uncle Thomas cried at the crowd that had gathered to watch, and a few of us, including myself and my father, lowered our heads in a quick, silent prayer. God have mercy on his soul. I clung to my fathers shoulders when the noose was put about my uncle’s neck, the executioner and his assistants soon tugging on the rope until he was suspended above the ground, his feet and legs flailing as he was deprived of the oxygen he so desperately needed. Uncle Thomas’ eyes bulged out of their sockets, his pale face turning a shade of purple, and just as I thought he would fall unconscious, they lowered him back onto the scaffold again. “Father, what is happening?” I whispered in confusion, for my uncle was not yet dead. “What are they doing?” Father did not answer, for he knew I would find out soon enough. A few seconds passed before Uncle Thomas was hoisted up into the air again, repeating the painful process of strangulation, testing his limits before allowing him back down again. By now, he was gasping for air, his body limp, and too exhausted to move. My brow furrowed in further confusion, when the noose was removed, and my uncle placed upon a wooden table, his arms and legs restrained to either corner. My father’s eyes glistened with tears, the sound of my uncle’s pleas for mercy no more than a faint wheezing. I felt the hand of my parent upon the back of my head, gently attempting to coax me to look away, yet I did not yield, my innocent gaze was locked upon the executioner and his sword that was held above the flames of a nearby fire. I did not know it then, but the searing hot blade would make my uncle’s death even slower. It would cauterize his wounds in such a manner he would not bleed to death at once, thereby having the time to see his insides being torn apart. I watched the sword as it was plunged into my uncle’s chest, his screams of agony ringing in my ears, making me tremble and whimper, bile rising in my throat. I hated that executioner. I hated Queen Elizabeth for condemning my uncle to a painful death. I hated the crowd, my father, myself, for doing nothing to stop it. I hated the entire human race.
A Perfect Liar 