Disclaimer:

This work is part-memoir; “large” part-fiction, meant to help the reader understand the inner workings of a woman with deep faith and a crazy imagination. This work is my best attempt to make sense of some of the craziest curveballs life has thrown at me and at history. For privacy reasons, you may notice that the names of some people and places have been changed. You may also observe that the fictional places and people appear real. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary. Trigger warning: the following content deals with tough topics like suicidal ideation and chronic and mental illness. Reader discretion is advised. For the month of November 2023, my goal is to provide the reader with anywhere between 1200-2000 words a day until we reach 50,000 words. Thank you for your help and your open mind. Happy Reading!

I stepped into the pool. From the outside, I’m sure I looked like all things were normal. Just a woman going for a swim. On the inside, I was in agony. Five months of not one but two nonstop headaches at the same time. Five months of acid down my eye and arm, daily falls, partial seizures, facial and sleep paralysis… getting what felt like lightning strikes every hour on the hour… whatever this was, it was torture, and this torture was making me crazy. At least that’s what I hoped it was doing.

“Nope. You’re not crazy.” I thought back to what the doctor shared. “We can clearly see a lesion on the part of your brain and brain stem that controls your motor function. No diagnosis yet as to what this is. But you’re not crazy. You’re feeling exactly what we’d expect you to feel.”

I hated that she told me that. If only I could say I was crazy… that my body was just making this up… then I could override all of this with a quick and terse comment to myself like “Whatever, Boo-Boo. You’re just crazy. Suck it up, Buttercup…” and then move on.

But I couldn’t, and because I couldn’t just give my body a quick, passing answer to whatever this crisis was…and none of the doctors knew (yet) what to call this… I was in even more agony.

I shook my head and waded through the water. I had barely gotten any sleep the night before. Throughout the night, I’d wake up from my sleep unable to breathe… unable to feel my head…and my right arm and leg for that matter. I’d shoot up out of sleep attempting to get the feeling back. And after a while, the feeling would slowly come back. Once I’d drift off, I’d lose all feeling again.

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My dreams that night were pretty vivid. He visited me again. This time without his prior executioner’s attire and instead in street clothes. He wore a hoodie and sweat pants. His long, black hair was neat, but loose and fingernails trimmed. He smelled like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He met me at a park and a nice budding cherry blossom tree. “Hey Brittany… how are you feeling today?” His voice was kind and full of concern. He invited me to sit on the park bench below the cherry blossom tree.

“Oh…” I sighed. “My head hurts…as usual. Actually, today I could barely feel it. As in, I had no feeling.”

“Oh really?”

I thought back to the first time we met in a previous vivid dream. The French Revolution was occurring before my eyes. The guillotine was still sharp though it was caked with the blood of hundreds for that day. I stood in a long line of aristocrats and peasants alike. Some of them looked mortified. Some were so scared they had peed themselves. Others were furious with rage and looked defiantly at the crowd.

I…was dazed…but calm for the majority of the walk to the guillotine. When I was next in line, I felt surprisingly very calm as I walked up the steps to the platform. The executioner paused. He was tall and broad. He wore a brown hood over his head to cover his face. He was covered in blood.

“You’re not French.” He said in English with an American accent. He sounded like he also spoke Spanish? Or was it Italian? “You’re not even from this time. This time is too early for you. Why are you here?”

“I don’t know…” I started. “I think I was just following the crowd and ended up here.”

“What a crowd to follow,” he chuckled. “There had to be more of a reason for why you’re on my platform now…”

I sighed and eyed the guillotine. My eyes followed the drops of blood that dripped from its blade to the severed heads on the ground below.

“I think I want to ask more about your services. All those people below don’t have and can’t have headaches anymore. My head hurts soooo so bad. And I can’t remember a time or imagine a time when I didn’t or won’t have one. It’s that bad.”

He stepped back, crossed his arms and leaned against his guillotine. The crowd started booing and throwing rotten food at the platform. I didn’t care. It all sounded like how it felt inside anyway.

“So you want to remove your head?”
“Yes. …I mean… I think so. I figured if I didn’t have a head, I wouldn’t have to suffer or deal with this anymore.”
“Hmm…” he paused. “I mean…I could do that for you. But I’m really only getting paid to handle the bourgeoisie and any sympathizers right now. Are you sympathetic to the monarchy?”

I gave him a sarcastic look. “Does it look like I’m sympathetic? I’m a Black American woman from the next millennium. It’s kind of in my blood to hate monarchies…” I chuckled but quickly grabbed the right side of my head as I winced in pain. As the acid feeling went down my eye and right arm again, I started to lose my balance. “Look…” I said through my teeth as I grabbed onto a post. “I’m really just here because I can’t seem to shake this darn headache…”

The executioner rushed over and caught me before I fell into the crowd. The crowd leered. “Tell ya what… You look like you’re in a lot of pain right now and it wouldn’t be right to make you suffer like this… I can do this one thing for you if you’d like. But you gotta be sure. My services are more permanent than that tattoo in your left arm there. You ready to make a decision right now? Or did you need some time?”

“Thanks. And what’s the cost for this? You said that you’re here for the French right now?”

“Yep. I’ve got a blank check for all French monarchists right now. So unless you want to be for the crown, you’d have to pay for this service out of your pocket.”

“I see. And how expensive is this…” I gestured at the guillotine, “…service?”

“Simple. Just time. I get paid in time. The one commodity that can never be replenished, replaced or restored…by humans that is. So in your case…” he sized me up. “40-50 years give or take… in short… all the rest of the time you have.”

I considered this. I mean, I wasn’t surprised. What human survives losing a head? But no more pain? No more suffering? Just nothing…or something…in the afterlife?

At that moment, my pup and husband came to mind. “Question: who would walk my dog after you do this? And who would make sure Nick got to his appointments on time, keep the house neat for him and make sure he was emotionally okay?” The crowd started chanting, “Avec sa tête!” at the top of their lungs.

“Well… it wouldn’t be you… that’s for certain. I don’t know many headless wives that survived to live another day to walk their dog or make sure their husbands were okay.”

“I see…” My project manager mind started racing through everything I still had left to do. “Mind if I sleep on this? Will you be here later?”

“No, I don’t mind. But I’ll meet you somewhere else. Somewhere where there’s not a cruel, blood thirsty crowd.” He gestured to the crowd that was now ready to jump on the platform and throw me in the guillotine themselves.

He pushed me away from the edge of the platform and escorted me toward another set of steps on the far end of the platform.

“How will I find you?” I asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find you.” He lifted his hood with his gloved hands to show me his face for the first time. If I didn’t know any better, he looked like anyone I would find on the street, that took care of themselves and worked out. The only feature of his that stood out were the fine black line tattoos on his neck. His neck was fully covered in different designs of eyes. He winked. “Just so you remember what I look like.” And with that he walked me down the steps and into the crowd.

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Post Word Count: 1,543

Total Word Count: 1,543