I woke up around 9:30, bathed in sweat: the bench I was lying on was soaked and sticky, my hair damp and greasy. Taking off my shirt to stay cooler hadn't worked: even my breasts were shiny, covered in several drops of sweat. I looked out the small window, reading the time on the clock tower: there were 2 and a half hours left for my execution.
I rinsed my face and tried to think of something to distract myself from the obsessive thought that haunted me: I looked back on my life a bit and, as much as I wanted to be strong, I couldn't help but think that while I would be hanging by the holding a gallows, Adele would have observed me and would have commented on my agony from the rostrum of the bourgeois; that bitch with her ass in cover, and me writhing in the air, strangled by a rope. I knew it was my fault, in the end it's me who trusted the wrong people, but still I couldn't accept it: a lot of shitty people would have lived a good life they didn't deserve, while I was about to finish mine to my parents and siblings and friends, and in the most humiliating way possible to boot. Not that I was embarrassed to be hanged, deep down I knew it could have been worse; I was just angry at the thought of that bitch mocking my death.
I looked at myself in the mirror: I tried to leverage the vanity that every girl possesses, I repeated to myself that with my 16 years and my physique I would have made all my peers die of envy who flocked to see me dangling. I rinsed my face, chest, breasts and arms and, with a bit of self-mockery, looked at myself in the mirror, pointing at myself and saying, "Now that's a really sexy death row inmate."
After all, I wasn't in bad shape: I had a firm bottom that was highlighted by the jeans I was wearing, I had a fairly robust but slender physique, even being a few kilos less than my ideal weight; my skin was a little pale compared to normal, as I had a hard time tanning; large brown eyes, a pretty face, and long straight black hair; and, in addition, also a third of abundant breasts. Yes, at that moment I also had my fingernails and toenails painted blue, but I doubt that they would have been seen, or that they would have been highlighted by my hanging.
I had never been a great believer, having also started swearing freely from the age of 14; however, if there was a hell, I had no desire to end up there; so I knelt down and, joining my hands and closing my eyes, I began to pray, asking forgiveness for my sins and for not believing so much in God, to whom I asked forgiveness precisely for this fault. Unfortunately, for some years the government had removed religious assistance from those sentenced to death, and therefore I was forced to think alone of the absolution of my soul, hoping that it would be enough. Then I sat on the bench thinking about what it would be like to be publicly executed, what it would feel like: I wasn't thrilled to be hanged, that was obvious, but I certainly concluded that I certainly didn't regret my actions and that, looking back, I would have done it all again, knowing the end I would have met.
A long time later, hearing the bells ringing, to warn the populace that my execution was about to begin, I put on my shirt and buttoned it up to the penultimate button. I was dying of heat, but I wasn't going to leave my breasts exposed to public ridicule. Almost as soon as I finished, a guard entered who opened the cell and, turning me around, tied my hands tightly behind my back. I turned and began to walk but he stopped me almost immediately and, with both hands, opened his shirt in one fell swoop, popping all the buttons.
I made no comment, knowing that with one wrong word I might find myself being whipped, and I didn't feel like it; being hanged in front of my family, my friends and my enemies was enough for me.
The soldier escorted me out of the prison: as soon as we got out I was hit by the heat of mid-July, which turned out to be even worse than what I had suffered in my cell. The heat was stifling, and the ground was terribly hot; I remained in contact with the ground for a short time, as I was immediately made to get on the chariot, but for those few seconds the ground made me suffer a lot due to the bareness of my feet.
As soon as I got into the cart, a noose was tied around my neck and the end of the rope was tied to the cart so that I could not escape; moreover, that rope tied around my neck was supposed to serve as a symbol of the fact that I was sentenced to death.
Even though it was made of wood, the wagon was also hot. He set off early, at a rather slow pace: I knew I was going to die, but still wished he would go faster, because the midday sun was blazing down, and without exaggerating the temperature was in the 38°C, without even a bit of wind.
On the cart with me there was only the guard who had escorted me out of the cell, who was visibly in trouble due to the heat and the uniform he was wearing. I was looking up, and erect, but without keeping my chest out; I didn't feel comfortable knowing my boobs were easily visible, but I didn't want to give the crowd an excuse to entertain them by looking weak. The crowd followed the cart and teased and insulted me, mocking and mocking me, perhaps because they were annoyed by my calmness and seriousness; in fact, it was usual for women sentenced to death, especially young ones like me, to cry and sob, begging for mercy or asking forgiveness for their crimes. But I wasn't like that.
I was sweaty enough already, and my shirt showed it noticeably, especially under my armpits.
Besides, I wasn't dressed for that climate: I was wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned but with long sleeves; I was wearing Blue jeans ripped at the ends but with a few rips along the trousers, which reached my mid-calves and I was barefoot. I mean, I could have been better dressed. At that moment I envied a libertine girl whom I saw being executed a few days before my arrest; the young woman, aged 18, died by hanging in mid-June, with 32 degrees, completely naked.
When the cart arrived in front of the cathedral, it stopped: the rope was untied from the cart but left tight around my neck, and I was made to get off; I took small and quick steps, because the tiles on the ground were hot and I, barefoot, suffered; however, I was soon made to kneel, right in front of the main door of the cathedral.
I remain on my knees for a few minutes until voices are heard singing and a group of ecclesiastics comes out of the cathedral, led by the bishop and flanked by the lay authorities. One of these, the judge, opens a parchment and begins to read:
"Today, July 18, 3023, Julie Brownin was found guilty of voluntary multiple homicide and, therefore, is sentenced to be hanged by the neck until death occurs; on her way to the gallows, may she receive three red-hot staples, as a sign of atonement for one's sins."
I remain immobilized listening to the sentence: I knew about the hanging, but I never expected to be condemned to the torture of red-hot tongs as well. Before I have time to think anything, two guards, dressed much lighter than the first, grab my arms and drag me back, forcing me onto the wagon. Each wrist is tied to one end of the wagon, while my shirt is opened as much as possible, leaving both breasts and hips clearly visible to everyone; meanwhile, the executioner climbs up and heats the tongs on the brazier, while a guard ties my feet together and then ties them to the bench I'm sitting on, so that I can't lift them.
I felt the dread rise in me; I wanted to say something, maybe ask for mercy, but my pride categorically prevented me.
The cart started moving again, this time towards the scaffold from which I was to be hanged: the heat was still pounding and torrid, and the brazier didn't help: I felt its heat, and I trembled at the idea that those pincers were being used to tear the my flesh. In place of the soldier in the heavy uniform, a man dressed in a National Guard shirt and tracksuit shorts, and wearing a sports cap also from that body, had climbed onto the cart. I recognized him, he was an ex-classmate of mine, with whom I thought I had remained on good terms, but instead, as soon as I recognized him, he said to me: "So you recognized me, bitch."
Offended, I replied: "How dare you, asshole!"
He approached me with a grin, and threw me a violent slap: I at least tried to move my legs to kick him, but I was completely blocked. Sensing that I wanted to spit on him, he grabbed my neck with one hand and squeezed: feeling my breath short, I squirmed and tried to move; he loosened his grip, but forced me to lift my head whispering in my ear: "If I were you, I wouldn't spit on myself: one word is enough for me, and your pinches will increase."
So saying, he went away and stood by the brazier; still driven by pride, I spat on him. He became angry and ordered the executioner: 'You have just committed an offense against a public official. Grab her 4 times instead of 3. I take full responsibility.”
A few minutes later, approaching me with incandescent pincers in hand, the executioner pinched me a little to find the best place to tear first; when she had found it, she squeezed hard when the skin was between its beak: I screamed in pain, turning purple. The executioner squeezed hard, until a piece of meat began to tear from the height of the collarbone. I felt faint in how much pain I felt: for a moment, a stab of pain shot through my body, even reaching my toes. As the blood began to flow copiously, I, forgetting my pride, screamed and cried, so loud that I covered the screams of the crowd several times.
Letting the blood flow, the executioner took the second pincer in his hand: I saw that the beak was made up of two small flat plates, incandescent at that moment. I shook my head in terror, demanding that nothing be done to me. I was so scared, and was in more pain than I ever thought possible.
Opening the pincers, the executioner closed it on my left arm, in the part between the shoulder and the elbow. I screamed in pain, screaming and crying as the stench of burning flesh wafted through the air. Even the captain, who had never liked me in high school and who had often made fun of my fate in the last few minutes, gave me a pitying look. Normally I would have attacked him for such an affront, but in this case knowing that even one of my tormentors was impressed by my suffering heartened me.
After the torture of the left arm, the executioner took another pincer, applying the same formula on the right arm: he pressed and dilated with an expert hand, preventing irreparable damage to the veins and blood vessels. Even the choice of points to be burned had been well thought out, falling on points that were easily treatable and where there were no important anatomical systems, but which still caused tremendous harm.
I yelled: "Have mercy! Have mercy! Isn't it enough to hang me?”
The executioner answered me in a harsh tone, shouting: "How is it, now you're not being tough anymore? Come on, be a warrior and fight the pain.”
The third squeeze came, the stench of burnt flesh spread, and I burst into tears: I kept writhing violently, trying to free my hands from the grip of the ropes; I also banged my heels violently on the cart, trying to free my ankles, in a desperate attempt to move. The suffering had led me to be immersed in a bath of sweat, to the point that even the wooden tablet on which I was sitting was soaked.
It was the time of the fourth pincer, which was tightened around my right side: weeping passionately, I began to scream at the top of my lungs: «Please have mercy! Mercy, I'm only 18!"
The executioner answered me again, shouting: «Shut up! Have some dignity and hold on, you good-for-nothing!”
Then I calmed down, exhausted from the pain, and asking, almost in a whisper, "Enough, please."
The impassive executioner replied: "We are still at the beginning, gallows pendant."
A little later the cart arrived in the square, which I saw was crowded with people. The gallows dominated the stage. My wrists and feet were untied, but my hands were quickly re-tied behind my back. The captain and another guard helped me off the wagon. As soon as I got off I found myself face to face with the crowd, and was immediately hit by all kinds of rotten vegetables, thrown at me in contempt.
I advanced slowly, due to the weakness caused by the torture: the bandages improvised by the executioner were already giving way, the waist of the jeans and some parts of the shirt were already smeared with blood. I walked through the crowd, ironically trying to concentrate on the insults, at least to distract myself from the pain, and also to understand if I could hear any familiar voices. While walking slowly, I often found myself being pushed by the guards, and in less than I expected I found myself faced with the last steps I would have climbed in my life: I climbed them slowly, actually without even thinking too much about what was happening. I only realized everything when the steps ended and I found myself in front of the noose hanging from the gallows: suddenly, all the courage I had felt up to that moment disappeared. Even the wood of the stage was burning, and the heat was now overwhelming; the sun was beating hard, and it was almost hard to breathe because of the heat. Leaning against the scaffold, next to the noose, was the ladder that was to spell my end.
Desperated and exhausted from the torture, I fell to my knees, humiliating myself. I wanted to get up, but I had no strength in my legs .
At one time I would have been granted the last sacrament with a priest, but times had changed and since the war with the Vatican priests were no longer allowed to provide their services to condemned people: so I was simply put under the noose, while the guards tried to silence the crowd. Being under that sad knot made me nervous, and this feeling was accentuated when a soldier approached and I pulled my shirt back slightly, just enough to leave my breasts more visible, thus increasing my humiliation. I was pulled to my feet, but held by my arms to keep me up.
My sentence was re-read, but this time, in addition, I was asked if I had anything to say: I was about to speak, when I heard myself called from the side. Turning me around, I saw that from the rostrum Adele was standing with her head bowed, imitating the grip of the noose with her hands, and mimicking the pained grimaces that my face would soon make. Trying to ignore her, I knew the crowd expected to see me, like all other women sentenced to death in history, repentant of my actions and willing to humbly ask to be forgiven and to pray for my soul ; but I didn't want to bow to that scum who, on the cart, had thrown me rotten fruit and insults, mocking my suffering.
Thus, I sent exactly the same message that, some time before, the completely naked hanged girl had sent; with a proud and cheeky look, I shouted: "Enjoy seeing me dangling, and know that if I could go back, I wouldn't think twice about killing that son of a bitch who was my husband and that whore I found him in bed with!" The crowd howled in disagreement, and I heard many voices, some even familiar, of people wishing me to die slowly and suffer long.
A guard grabbed the ladder and placed it in front of the noose, but as he put it down he put it on my foot: I screamed in pain and he, probably a man just recruited by the National Guard, apologized; he fixed the ladder and a colleague of his took me by the arm and led me in front of the ladder, making me climb the first rung. Before I could realize what was actually happening, the noose was tightened around my neck, and my hair was pulled from its grip. A soldier stood behind me and tied my feet together, squeezing tightly, so tightly that I winced in pain; however, he ignored me.
I heard a cry in the crowd, and in the front row I found my mother and my brother: I yelled at them: «Mom, don't look! John, get her out of there!" my mother pressed herself to my brother's chest, crying, screaming that they were going to kill her little girl. I turned towards the grandstand and saw that Adele was laughing, mimicking my mother's tears: losing sight of anger, I screamed until I overcame the cries of the crowd; silence fell, and I shouted to her: «Adele, don't laugh much! I'll meet you here in less than a-… erk-gaggh »
Thus ended my sentence, as, without any warning, the ladder was taken from under my feet: I began to moan and gurgle, emitting embarrassing noises as the noose strangled me. I tried to move my arms and legs, but they were tied, and I could only move my shoulders and knees; the only things I saw was the fact of turning, because when the ladder was removed, my body was practically thrown off and the rope I was hanging from made a few turns on itself. I caught a glimpse of my mother fainting in the crowd, but the sight disappeared in a short time: the only thing I could feel was my chest which hurt a lot; a very small rivulet of air reached my lungs, every time I inhaled my chest and throat hurt terribly; I tried to exhale, but I couldn't and ended up only inhaling. Every second seemed to stop, and I don't know how long it was before it was all over.
Now that I no longer belong to the mortal world, I know that my agony, according to the records, lasted about 7 minutes: 7, interminable, minutes, in which every second never passed, making me suffer pain never experienced before. That's how I died.

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