There they stood. 

The six oldest members of our village. 

Sentenced to death for the crime of being elderly. 

Though it wasn’t quite a crime, nor a sentencing. They all knew it was coming. All six of them, standing there stone-faced and unmoving, not willing to fight the inevitable.  

They know they are burdens to our society; not contributing anything, just taking. 

Like parasites. 

Their families stand closest to the gallows, weeping and saying their final goodbyes. Even the faintest whispers they utter are deafening compared to the complete silence of the rest of the crowd. 

The Six aren’t allowed to speak. They aren’t allowed to say anything that could possibly make the city take pity on them. So, they silently shed tears, nodding and shaking their heads in response to their loved ones’ questions and pleas. 

The first time this happened, there was uproar. There were riots, protests, the argument that people’s lives didn’t lose their value just because they grew old. 

Now, after forty-odd years, the ceremony is just something that happens annually. A regular part of our lives that comes and goes. 

“The Six may now present their final words and wishes to their families,” the executioner formally stated, walking in front of the row of men and women and collecting a sealed envelope from each. He turned to the crowd, reading the names on each of the envelopes. 

“Sadie and Charles.” 

“Reece.” 

“Lorelei and her daughters.” 

Those called came to the front of the crowd, and the executioner handed them the envelopes, their cries lost in the ocean of melancholy acceptance. Once all the envelopes were handed out, the executioner walked back to the gallows, and after a few moments of silence, pulled the lever. 

All six fell, necks wrung by the thick ropes that were tightly wrapped around them. They dangled there like ragdolls, and the sobs turned to wails and screams. Most people had turned away, not wanting to witness the act itself. 

Not me. I watched every moment. I always did. Not out of some wretched fascination, but out of respect for those who gave their lives for the good of the village. 

Once the executioner had confirmed them all deceased, he took their bodies down, presenting them to the families to do as they wished with them. The crowd dispersed, leaving only the gallows and myself remaining in the plaza. 

I stared at the fatal contraption before me. A thing created for the sole purpose of killing. How proud I was forty years ago, presenting it to our leaders and suggesting this. How noble I felt when I promised to boldly take my place on the gallows when my time eventually came. 

I catch myself rubbing my neck subconsciously and turn away from the gallows, my knees creaking as I did. My shaking hand planted my cane one step in front of me, and I began my long walk home. 

I need to convince them. 

I need to make them believe this is no longer necessary. 

But how could anybody possibly interpret my pleas as anything more than a murderer begging for his life when his turn finally came? 

What a fool I was.