Red, the color of wine, covered her from head to toe.  The silk collar reached her chin, and the skirt gathered in the dirt, hiding her feet.  She revealed nothing, either in her clothes or her face.


The flowing dark tresses that had long been her signature were shorn into a light mass of curls framing her pale face, and her black eyes were cast to the ground.  With measured steps she slipped down the aisle between the crowds, either ignoring or simply oblivious to their calls and jeers.  They screamed for her death, she knew.  And soon that death would come.


Rough hands grabbed her slight arms and roughly pulled her faster towards the steps of the guillotine. She let them pull, knowing resistance would be futile.  At the top of the stairs, callused hands ripped her collar from her neck, revealing its curve, and making her feel naked. 


Perhaps, she hoped, this was all a dream. 


They pulled her tight to the board, holding her down as they flipped it so it was horizontal.  The space between her head and the ground seemed enormous. She emitted a cry then, and a citizen near the machine heard.  He related to the crown her terror, and they cheered louder.  The noise deafening our lady’s ears. 


They slid her forward, and the boards were fitted into place around her neck.  Seconds left.  Not even. She shut her eyes, and the sound of the metal on wood was the last thing she heard.