I was chained: feet to hands, hands to neck, shackles locked and the key thrown away. Left for dead in a dark, dank pit that even the worms declined to visit, I mired in my own demise. It was not my fault I had been born to royalty and I certainly did not flaunt it, but that counted for little when the revolution started. I was just another wig amongst many.
They hurt me, defiled me and ultimately grew bored with me. When my mental resistance proved greater than my physical, they cast me into my pit with a sneer; I wasn’t worth wasting a sword stroke on. That is where they left me through thunder and storm, snowfall and ice. I think they forgot about their silent example. In some ways, I had never been so grateful for being born mute.
I stayed that way for many months, too many months, living off the scraps that passing children through at me, rather than to me. I survived when others would not have, as my clothes festered and fell from my skin, as my sanity slowly dripped away.
But they had made a grievous error that day they allowed me to see my Chantelle bent beneath the guillotine’s gaping smile. They thought it would finish me, break me, but it only infused me. For all I saw in the darkness when they discarded me to my doom was the emerald eyes I was refused to see at her butchering. She had the most stunning eyes, so beautiful, I could never have forgotten them.
And as the rust began to eat at the metal of the forgotten man’s bindings, I knew that one day I would be free. I should rise from my pit, voiceless, raging, my gaze speaking for me. And they would feel the taste of their own blood, as I carved her name into each and every one of them. That would be my revenge, and I would have it no matter how long the wait. I would live for Chantelle’s memory and kill to ease my own.
That day has come.