I take as long as possible. Not that it matters. Dawdling will do nothing but postpone the inevitable, but it’s the best I can do for her now. The blade feels gritty as I scrub it clean of the blood of the previous visitor. He deserved it. She does not. He killed someone. She was protecting herself from a future attack. The sharpening stone collides with the wooden platform, leaving a dent where I hurled it down in anguish. As much as I hate to admit it, she does deserve it. She was just being paranoid, like she always has been. Ever since we were kids and she stockpiled all her parents’ kitchen knives in her closet so they wouldn’t be able to kill her in her sleep. Anyone who thought she was a psychopath then is probably having a good laugh now.

    How could she have gotten herself into this? Why couldn’t she stay in control and out of trouble? Why was I here preparing to kill her for it? She was my best friend. How could I possibly go through with this execution knowing whose head would be rolling down the bloodstained steps when it was all over?

The crowd is getting impatient, I can tell. They came for blood and all they are getting are the salty tears of a sentimental man. That’s it. The blade’s clean and sharp and reloaded. There’s nothing else I can do for her now. I nod sullenly to the guard holding her, and he pushes her up the damp steps. I will my hands not to shake as I lower the sack over her head. I turn her toward the anxious guillotine, my hands guiding her shoulders to their final resting spot. As quietly and inconspicuously as I can, I whisper in her ear the three words I had kept from her all these years.

    There is no scream when the blade comes down.