Gray Obsession

Chapter 1

Chapter One

I have three men to kill today. Three disgusting humans.

One was caught stealing. The second poisoned his wife so he could marry his mistress. The third was caught doing unspeakable things to a young girl before dismembering her. I hate men, but this is why I love my job so much; I get to kill them.

I'm an executioner, a female executioner, just to be clear. No lady should be doing this, but I live to kill; the blood, the cries, and the rolling heads are addictive. I love it. Lust for it.

I live a little outside of London in a small, secluded cottage.

It's not much, but I don't want anything more.

I'm not allowed to live close to where I work, since people may recognise me as an executioner and treat me differently.

I wear a mask when performing the deaths, but you can never be too careful—this place likes to gossip.

I don't have friends, nor do I have family. It’s just me, nature, and my weapons.

I like to alternate the weapons I use for my work.

Sometimes, I use my greataxe, Malenia—I have a very special relationship with her.

Other times, I use a sword. I choose my weapon depending on my mood or the crimes the person has committed.

For the ones with the worst convictions, I tend to fetch Malenia.

The look on their faces when they see me approaching them with her is amusing, and they often urinate themselves, throw up, or scream and beg me for mercy, but I just laugh at them.

I'm the one in control of their lives, and I live to take it from them.

Their last breaths are mine.

No one can see me as I prepare my stage.

The chopping block is placed just where I like it.

Malenia and my sword, Olivia, are both sharpened, ready for use, and I’ve already changed into my black work attire.

I like that I can choose how to protect my identity.

I usually go for a hood and mask, but if I want to look like an idiot, a full bag over my head with eye holes is also an option.

The bag is usually made from a potato sack and stinks, so I prefer the mask and hood; it also helps that my eyes can see everything, so I never miss a single moment or blood drop.

Sometimes, I can even taste the blood when it splashes on my mask, and that sends a rush through me that’s even more powerful, more primal, than sex.

I don't wear make-up, so having my eyes show isn't too much of a risk. In fact, I don't even act or speak the same way others do. I'm different.

They sit on their arses all day, being perfect wives for pretentious males who would rather visit whore houses than settle down.

Don’t get me wrong, though, I have nothing against whore houses; I often go myself after a long, brutal, blood-filled day.

Something about death makes me shudder with such pleasure that sometimes I need a release from the ladies who work there.

My job isn't for the fainthearted, nor is it actually meant for women, but my boss made an exception after witnessing my skills one day whilst visiting my blacksmith shop.

Word got out that I fix horseshoes and sharpen weapons, so he had to see it for himself.

A woman with a skill only a man can possess? Outrageous.

He saw me dance with my axe before slicing an animal carcass into clean cuts for my afternoon meal, and he immediately asked me to be his headsman at the Tower of London. I couldn't say no; all I had to do was keep quiet, pad out my stomach, and look more like a man so no questions were asked.

The crowd shouts and hollers from behind the wooden doors barring them from my setup—it must be nearly time to start—and my heart begins to pound with excitement.

I'm ready.

My face is covered, my eyes are alert, and my weapon is in hand. Everything is perfect. I shift my weight from one leg to the other, unable to keep still. Who will be first to die by my hands today?

The wooden gate opens, and hundreds of people stumble through, struggling to get as close to the stage as possible. Some are sobbing while others laugh, and some are drunk and already starting fights.

Madness.

A bell rings nearby, which quiets the crowd. There are murmurs here and there, but all eyes are on me. I look towards the battered door of the Tower, waiting for some pathetic man to be announced. I can already imagine his feeble pleas: “Please, no, have mercy!” Pathetic.

Two guards drag out the first man as he kicks and screams, trying to get away. He’s shirtless with his hands tied behind his back, scrawny, and oh so loud.

“I didn't kill my wife! I loved her. I would never do such a thing. Please believe me! Don't kill me, please,” the man begs as he’s forced to his knees in front of the chopping block.

“Please,” he whispers to no one. “It wasn't me. I loved her. I LOVED HER!” he roars, trying to get back to his feet.

“Get the fuck back down, you filth!” A guard kicks the man in the stomach, stealing his breath and taking the fight right out of him. Both guards place the man back in position—on his knees with his chin resting on the block.

The man sobs quietly now.

“Barnabus Gildford, you are sentenced to death for the murder of your wife,” a guard announces to the crowd.

“I didn't do it, I swear,” Barnabus whispers to himself. “I will see you again soon, my love. I'm sorry,” he murmurs, shutting his eyes. I grab my sword, positioning myself, and my heart races with anticipation. This is it. His last breath, his last sob, his life… all mine.

A crow caws loudly, the sound echoing throughout the silence of the crowd, and I swing down hard.

With a thump, his head falls in front of the block into the waiting basket as blood sprays the audience.

Some of it splashes on me, and I suppress a chuckle while licking it off my mask as it seeps through.

The guards kick the man's headless body into a coffin, throwing his head in alongside, before dragging it away.

I don't bother wiping my sword. The next piece of scum will be out soon.

The next victim appears calm as he’s escorted up the stage steps; he’s already accepted his fate. He does look nervous up close, though, and a wet patch has formed on his grey pants.

Come on, boy. Just put your head down, and it'll be over soon, I promise silently. I smile under my mask.

“Jonathan Smith, you are sentenced to death for stealing two chickens, three loaves of bread, and six apples,” the guard declares.

The crowd is mostly quiet, but a couple of people laugh, and I catch an old farmer glaring menacingly at Jonathan.

Johnny-boy is a good lad for me, getting on his knees and putting his head nicely on the block without a problem.

There’s no fighting, no last words, and to be honest, I’m a little disappointed—I do love hearing them cry.

Everyone stops moving, and all is quiet.

A small sob escapes Johnny-boy, and I let him have his moment, but not for long.

I swing, and his head falls into the basket in front of the block with a thud.

Again, the guards move his body into a coffin, little more than a pine box, and take it away.

The crowd starts to talk amongst themselves once more. There are some extreme reactions—a few people are vomiting, while others cheer—but most look bored as they wait for the last kill of the day. One more kill, then I can return to my little cottage, wash my clothes, and try to read my book.

But right now, I’m still so hungry. And not for food.

“There he is! That’s the monster who killed my daughter.

She was nine, you bastard! Make it hurt!

” an angry man shouts from the crowd. I watch the guards escort a cocky-looking fucker, and the crowd goes wild.

Food is thrown, and people scream as they try to get onto my stage.

Luckily, the guards are standing sentry in front of the stage, ready to block their attempts. God, they really do hate this one.

The man stands before the chopping block, arms tied behind his back, with one guard on either side of him. The air is silent as the prisoner looks to the father of the daughter he killed and says, “She loved every fucking second of it.”

The crowd loses it, attacking the guards in a desperate attempt to get closer.

Whilst my colleagues are busy trying to defend themselves, a few people manage to scramble onto the stage and begin beating the man, kicking, punching, and stabbing him with whatever they can find.

The guards near me don't even bother trying to stop it.

Instead, one of them shouts, “Edgar Turner, you are sentenced to death for the rape, mutilation, and murder of a nine-year-old girl. May you burn in Hell.”

I clean my sword as Edgar continues to be mangled by the crowd. The nearby crow from earlier caws continuously, sounding as mad as I feel.

Since the bloodthirsty fuckers took my last kill, I’m done for the day. I was looking forward to that one too—I was planning to botch it so he would feel the pain of having half his head hanging off until I decided to swing again.

A sudden chill crawls up my spine, and I stop what I'm doing. The crowd freezes and goes silent as time slows.

What the hell?

I look into the crowd below me, spotting black eyes staring back at me. They peer deep into my soul, and my breathing stops for a second.

My trance is broken as one of the guards walks past me, and I breathe again, looking for the black voids that have now vanished.

What was that?

Who was that?