Indeed, it's going something like this in his head:
The guillotine... is over him, a dreadful, looming sign of a man's last stop on the road of life. Abel's being forced down on his knees before it, roughly; the gravel biting into bare skin a sharp but irritation that seems so tedious to pay any mind before he faces his death.
His head is forced roughly downward, throat touching the splintered wood to mark the spot of decapitation. His redheaded captor fists a handful of his hair to move him proper place, and all he can see is the bloodstained dirt. The dirt, which is what his life amounts to, in the end.
The sun is low in the sky he can no longer look upon. It matters not. He will not be granted the comforts of Heaven, above those clouds -- but instead his soul is destined to travel in the direction his eyes are cast. Down, downward... marked for death and facing it with grace as his cruel and heartless executioner stands over him and prepares the blade with expectant gold eyes.
Abel takes a breath... a slow breath. In... and then out again, eyes closing to block out his dismal last and final sights until there is nothing left but the backs of his eyelids. He will not beg for mercy. He has no last words.
All that is left... is the end.
He hears the creak of the old mechanism of death, the finality of the blade shifting above him. He feels no fear, only a grim sense of resignation... She, of all people, deserves to be the one to pull the lever and end it all. She is his final judge and deliverer to his destiny.
There is a SHINK-- blade slides down--
And thus, Abel Nightroad begins flailing in a most attractive version of the chicken dance in ducky boxers a man was ever likely to perform for his wife in the history of mankind.
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Indeed, it's going something like this in his head:
The guillotine... is over him, a dreadful, looming sign of a man's last stop on the road of life. Abel's being forced down on his knees before it, roughly; the gravel biting into bare skin a sharp but irritation that seems so tedious to pay any mind before he faces his death.
His head is forced roughly downward, throat touching the splintered wood to mark the spot of decapitation. His redheaded captor fists a handful of his hair to move him proper place, and all he can see is the bloodstained dirt. The dirt, which is what his life amounts to, in the end.
The sun is low in the sky he can no longer look upon. It matters not. He will not be granted the comforts of Heaven, above those clouds -- but instead his soul is destined to travel in the direction his eyes are cast. Down, downward... marked for death and facing it with grace as his cruel and heartless executioner stands over him and prepares the blade with expectant gold eyes.
Abel takes a breath... a slow breath. In... and then out again, eyes closing to block out his dismal last and final sights until there is nothing left but the backs of his eyelids. He will not beg for mercy. He has no last words.
All that is left... is the end.
He hears the creak of the old mechanism of death, the finality of the blade shifting above him. He feels no fear, only a grim sense of resignation... She, of all people, deserves to be the one to pull the lever and end it all. She is his final judge and deliverer to his destiny.
There is a SHINK-- blade slides down--
And thus, Abel Nightroad begins flailing in a most attractive version of the chicken dance in ducky boxers a man was ever likely to perform for his wife in the history of mankind.