“The execution squad is on their way. Any last words?”

 

The accused gently ran her fingers along the rust and dirt of her chains. “I thought you believed my type were meant to be seen and not heard, Chancellor.”

 

“And you hardly look the part.” Her hair was splayed in every direction, matted and wild like a hungry lion’s mane. Her dress, which she hadn’t even the chance to change out of, remained shredded and stained. It barely served its purpose of covering her up, though she imagined her guards preferred it that way. Even her face, pure and untouched by make-up or war, with pursed lips and burning mocha eyes, still wore its scars proudly. “I’m merely doing my duty to the damned.”

 

“So humanity is a right saved only for the dead and dying?”

 

“It’s a privilege, Madame – not a right.”

 

“So what was my crime, Chancellor? What cost me my privilege?”

 

“You know why you’re here.”

 

“The only thing I know is that you and I are different colors and built from different parts. And yet, only one of us seems to be wearing chains.”

 

“I do my part, Madame. I know my place. You forgot yours. We don’t take these things kindly here.”

 

“Because you’d rather that my place be bent over your desk with my--”

    

“Sir, the squad is here. They’re loading their rifles right now.”

    

The chancellor nodded towards his assistant, waving the young boy off. “Tell them to enter once they’re ready.”

    

“Can do, sir.”

    

The coy Madame raised an eyebrow. “Or is he actually more your type, Chancellor?”

    

“Hold your tongue, harpy,” he cursed.

    

“Pinche putas, where I’m from. But birds and dogs are all the same, I suppose.”

    

“When they’re rabid and need to be put down, of course.”

    

The chancellor turned his back as the firing squad lined into the execution chamber. There were five of them, covered head-to-toe in heavy black padding, while shining black shields covered their faces. Instead of her executioners, all the Madame could see was her own disheveled face, reflected back at her five times over.

 

If irony had a taste, she imagined it would taste a little like blood: bitter if it’s yours, but perhaps it tasted sweeter from a distance.

 

While his back was turned, she pulled at her chains. Her arms burned from the effort, but still she pulled, again and again. Clank! Clank! Clank! Rattle-rattle-rattle! The entire chamber quickly filled with the echoes of chains and clashing metal.

    

Finally, the chancellor returned, a frustrated frown buried beneath his mustache as he gave her chains a hard pull. He took back all of the slack he had allowed her, pinning the fugitive to the wall and digging the chains deeper into her wrists, waist, and ankles. “ENOUGH, Madame. Don’t make this worse for yourself.”

    

“What are you going to do? Shoot me twice?”

    

The chancellor approached her. “You put yourself here. Don’t forget that.”

    

“I didn’t ask for these chains, Chancellor. ANY of my chains.”

    

The two stared each other down, hardened emeralds staring down warm and passionate orbs of chocolate. “We are not the villains, Madame,” the chancellor reassured. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped trying to paint us that way.”

    

“Artists can only paint what they see, Chancellor. I thought Impressionism would be your favorite movement.”

    

The chancellor tried to walk away yet again. “Your daughter studies the fine arts, doesn’t she?”

    

“What do you know about my daughter?”

    

“What we both know; she was there that night.”

    

The chancellor froze. With a sly smirk, the Madame continued, “What would you do if she had been caught, Chancellor? If she wore these chains in my place?”

    

“My daughter would NEVER—”

    

“It’s not a choice, Chancellor. It’s a passion, it’s a drive. Nobody chooses the revolution; the spirit of revolution chooses you.”

    

“My family lives and dies by the Lord’s word, and--”

    

“So does mine. The difference is that mi Jesucristo speaks Spanish. Yours might, too; it’d explain why this whole damn city can’t understand a word he says!”

​

The chancellor fumed. Unable to maintain his composure, he stormed over and smacked the back of his hand across her face. Whack! “Know your place, Madame. It is NOT under the light of our Lord.”

    

The accused cried out in pain, but regained herself just quick enough to spit in the chancellor’s face, right between his eyes. “Of course, how could I forget? The keys to Heaven are for sale, and my kind can’t afford to pay the toll.”

    

“Alright, that’s enough out of you. I’ve given you plenty of last words.”

    

“How about a song, then?” While the chancellor lined up his men, she began to hum. “En las montañas, las campanas están sonando…Y las chicas, y las chicas, están besando…”

    

“I said ENOUGH! Change your tune, Madame, before I change it for you.”

    

So she did. “Mi ojos vieron la llegada del Señor…Pisotea la vendimia donde uvitas esconder…”

    

Crack! He struck again. “That is one of the proud songs of our nation, and I will NOT tolerate your bastardizing--”

    

“Then let me translate so you can prostituirte!” She steeled her nerves, then stood up as straight as the chains would allow. “I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel, so let our Heroes, born of women, crush the serpents with their heels--!”

    

Crack! Again and again, he raised his hand to punish her. He beat her face until her cheeks began to swell and her teary eyes turned black. Blood ran from her lip and into her mouth, soaking her tongue with that salty, bitter taste of irony.

    

“Now be quiet.”

    

She choked on her tears and her pain, but refused to be silent. “Would you lift that same hand to your wife and child?”

    

“I’ve had enough of you. Gentlemen, line up.”

    

He cast her one final glance before stepping out of the chamber. “You may fire when ready.”