MATILDA

MATILDA

By: Michael T. Flanders

I gaze at the ground, my oblivion being condensed into dirt and rock. Never before had my neck felt so tense, so eager to move freely, than it did right now. Placed within the stock, I tremble each time Matilda’s rope is pulled. She’s a delicate lover, Matilda, yet a force to be reckoned with when she’s scorned. Treat her nicely and she’ll grant you one-of-a-kind entertainment. Get on her bad side and she’ll put you on the chopping block.

That’s where I was right now, awaiting the judgment of Matilda’s edge, her wrath if you will. It’s a bit poetic too, come to think of it. After all, I’m her creator, her Dr. Frankenstein. But now I’m hunched down, stuck with my neck in a rounded board. The blade will drop any moment, taking my life in one go if I’m lucky. That’s not how things always work with a guillotine though, especially one undersized. Matilda sits at only nine feet tall, a baby compared to old fashioned execution devices. Considering it now, I should’ve sprung for the extra beams to make her bigger. Damn me and my fickle wallet. Finally the blade reaches the top, waiting to be released from the executioner’s grasp.

Even now I had to admit I still thought my home-made death machine was a thing of beauty. She was endowed in all the right places, a woman of style and class. Yet like all women I spend considerable time with, she grew weary of me. Guess it was all the “Give me head” jokes that did it. Note to self: Think up new jokes in the afterlife.

The executioner walks to me, “Any last words?” I look up as much as the stock permits me to and get a decent look at the person controlling my fate. I was shocked, if not a little appalled when I saw who it was. I begin to stammer out something, but it’s cut off -no pun intended- by the executioner releasing the rope from his hand, sending Matilda’s blade on a one-way trip to the back of my neck.

Have you ever heard the sound of a head being decapitated? More specifically your own? It’s an extraordinary thing to hear, a self-beheading. Imagine walking through the squishiest mud you ever had, combined with a hammer –yes, a hammer- chopping through a bundle of dried out twigs. Add a popping of the ears to these noises and you’ve got a full-on party happening now. Yet the party is crashed by the grinding of a blade against bone as it’s slowly pulled out of my neck, preparing for its sequel journey up the tracks and back down to finish me off. Told you things don’t always go as planned with guillotines.

So the executioner works Matilda’s anger up the wooden frame once more, letting loose what sounds like the occasional chuckle. This dude is a complete dick, I’m letting you know this right now. I mean come on, my head is barely attached by sinew and a sliver of bone, yet this guy is laughing at me. Given the circumstances though, I’d probably do the same thing if I had Matilda in my possession. He’s still a dick.

The blade is again reset, having worked its way up Matilda’s garters… with some help of course. It now dangles above the hole in my neck, preparing to make sweet, sweet love to that bloody crater. The douchebag executioner laughs again, letting loose the tirade that is Matilda’s fury. With what little feeling I have left I can sense the blade’s arrival through the vibration it sends down the track. Son of a-

Matilda has served her purpose yet again, causing my thirst for entertainment to be quenched. Removing my gloves, I reach down to claim my prize. A flood of nostalgia and discomfort takes hold as I look at my gory reflection. He was stupid, weak, a child of ill-manner and bad taste. I’m now his successor, I will put things right. He may have built my love, but Matilda now rests with me. I’ll treat her right, like a lady deserves… if only out of fear she’ll pass the same judgment unto me.