The Stolen Loaf

I miss childhood. I miss carefree days spent lounging alongside riverbanks like mangy barn cats. I miss being able to laugh - to let that laughter float as freely as dandelion seeds on a breeze, not having to worry about where it would end up or about any sort of future at all.

Most of all, I miss the deep-seated faith that when it came to an end, everyone would get what they deserved. My brother would be punished if he hurt me. My sister and I each got a sweet treat after our chores. There was a divine justice to even the simplest of tasks. The world was poetry and each verse had an opposing rhyme - each song an answering key.

But life is not like childhood, or poems, or songs, and it's certainly not fair.

It's all I think now, as I kneel there, the rough wood biting into my neck, knees smarting, as the noble man before me, dressed head to toe in fine luxurious fabrics that likely cost more than the money I can bring to my family in a year, spouts off my crimes as well as my not-exactly-unclear judgment. I was caught stealing a loaf of bread - from a wealthy baker who had more bread than a flock of pigeons could eat. This baker had fired me the week before, from the single job that gave me pennies enough to buy his overpriced loaves. This baker beat his wife - scorned her further by creeping into his daughter's bed late at night. This baker gave showering presents to the gods in public, yet at home cussed at how the GAWDDAMN temples just wanted his GAWDDMAMN money. This baker didn't pay taxes. This baker refused to fight for our king.

And yet, it was I, though humble, devout, and desperate, who knelt in the before the ghostly face of death. My family was not here to bid me goodbye. I hadn't seen them since the morning of my arrest - I didn't want them to see me now. The loneliness did not care for courage though, and the fear crept on like tendrils reaching up from the cold, hard cobbles and leeching strength from my body. I just wanted it to be over.

The nobleman finished his speech, stern and self-important. His nose, rather reminiscent of a tin kettles spout, dripped mucus in the chilled autumn air. His thin eyes gazed at the axe man, signaling him - at least that's what I presumed - to approach.

There seemed to be a pause - a breath - a moment of hope. Perhaps the axe man would stand up for me? Maybe there was justice in the world after all?

But the heavy boot crunched on gravel, and the hulking mass of his body cast my future into deeper shadow.

The worst part was I didn't even know if my family was still alive - I'd never gotten that loaf of bread to them - for all I knew, they had starved and were waiting for me on the other side.