Moonlight glinted off of the metal axe blade as it swung through the air, and I knew that I was soon to die for my crimes. I had spoken with ghosts, of course, beforehand, asked if death hurt. Any sane person would do so, wouldn't they? Exactly. That's what I thought.
"No," they all said, before drifting off. I'm not quite sure why they didn't stop to chat, but alas, I suppose that's something that happens when you die. You lose interest. Still, I wouldn't have minded a bit of company, even if those cursed ghosts are always rather grim. Yet another side effect of death, I imagine.
At least I could take solace in the fact that death wouldn't hurt. I mean, who wouldn't want a painless death, as opposed to, oh, say, being scalded to death? Of course, there was always the chance that the ghosts had been merely toying with me, and I must admit now that it was a distinct possibility.
Funny the thoughts you think right before you die, no? I mean, here I am, kneeling on the ground about to have my head severed from my neck. That really is a rather permanent event in one's life, is it not? And here I am thinking about whether or not it is going to hurt. To be philosophical about it, the pain would only be temporary, and I would be better off worrying about what happens AFTER the pain.
That's not to say I'm not worried about what comes after. You could, in fact, say that I'm worried to death! Oh, I just KILL myself sometimes. Sorry, I swear on my soon-to-be grave, no more puns.
You know, come to think of it, perhaps it would have been a sight better if they had sharpened the blade, no? I mean, as it's coming towards me, it seems rather dull. I believe I heard that ignorant twit mumbling something about misplacing the rock he usually sharpened it on, but of course I had more pressing matters on my mind.
Perhaps I should come back as a ghost? That does seem rather logical, does it not? I mean to say, who wouldn't rather live forever, even if you are lacking some of life's simple pleasures? I must admit I've always envied being able to walk through walls, and fly. Is that really flying though, what they do? More like levitating, or gliding. Yes, gliding. That does seem like the right word for it, no?
I do wonder why more wizards don't become ghosts after death? It seems like the obvious decision. Hmm, I'll have to think on thi—
AUGH!!!
MERLIN'S BALLS! That hurt! AUGH! Those dead bastards lied to me! That axe bloody well does hurt!
Well, come to think of it, I don't SEEM to be dead… In fact, I'm still on my knees! Perhaps I'm truly invincible. I was a Gryffindor after all, no? But, then again—oh no…
That axe-wielding imbecile did it again! He just drove that blunt thing into my neck! You'd think he'd learn his lesson. Hmm… At least I know why I didn't die. Or at least, I believe I do. And I don't mean to brag, but I am exceptionally smart. Perhaps it has to do with the bluntness of his axe? But then he will kill me eventually, won't he? What a quandary…
THAT BLOODY TWIT!
He just swung it again! Oh my, he really is swimming the bottom end of the gene pool. If only I could insult him properly, man to man, but I have this cursed cloth covering my mouth, he can't even hear me…
AUGH!
I think I'm bleeding now… Oh, not again!
ARGH!
That son of a muggle, that's the sixth time he's swung it at my neck! Or is it the seventh? Maybe I should ask him. Oh, that's right. The cloth. Hmmm…
OW!
Where in the bloody world was this moron when his executing instructor was explaining the finer points of killing someone? I mean, I am on my knees and tied up and everything, it shouldn't be THAT hard. Honestly—
OOOOH!
I swear on my mother's grave, that axe gets duller every time! Well, I suppose I can't say that. My mother isn't dead yet, you see. It just seems a whole lot more dramatic than "my great aunt Atherina's grave" or something to that effect.
BLASTED SQUIB!
…
THAT MANGLED, SWAG BELLIED APE!
…
THAT TICKLE BRAINED, ONE WINGED DRAGON-CALF!
…
(A/N: Now, you could continue to peek into his thoughts throughout the execution, but to be honest it goes on for hours, and his insults are more and more pathetic as it goes on. So I suppose I'll spare you, shall I? Yes, that's what I thought you'd say. I'll just skip to the good bit, near the end.)
Well, after the first thirty or so stabs at it, the fool tried to reassure me by saying "Oh, don' worry ol' Nick, I'll have yo' head off in a jiffy!"
As you can imagine, that rather pathetic attempt at cheering me up left much to be desired.
In fact, it took about fifteen more swings until he finally finished the job. I'm not entirely sure what is happening now, I'm afraid, but I seem to be rising out of my bodily being and into the spirit world. At least, that's how it's always described in epic poems and things of that nature. Yes, there's my head, it looks like the beast of a man finally managed to get it off, too. Wait a moment, just a second, it does seem as if he… he didn't even manage to do it! He may have killed me, but my head does seem to be still attached, by half an inch at least! Oh, the irony. Oh, the justice.
Then again, I suppose he's still better of than me. I'm the one that's dead.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some lying ghosts to strangle. Can ghosts strangle other ghosts? Oh, I suppose we'll have to see….
Pfft, "Oh, it won't hurt a bit!" What a load of hogwash. I'LL show them what pain is like, then they'll be able to compare it to what happened when they died. Oh, they'll be sorry they ever lied to Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, mark my words!