Guillotine Bondage
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Guillotine Bondage
In 1791, the French physician Jean Guillotine proposed to reform the process of execution. The goal of this proposition consisted of making beheadings not only a privilege of the nobles, in addition to also carrying out the process as quickly as possible in order to cause the least amount of suffering. After all, in those days, death sentences involved the cruelest of methods: burning at the stake, hanging and quartering. Therefore, there in lay the guillotine.
A special feature of the guillotine comes in the form of sharpening the blade at an angle with weights weighing 40-100kg, enabling it to move unhindered down its vertical runners. Executions were carried out as follows: the convict’s neck was pinned between two boards equipped with access holes, the body laid upon a wooden bench. After this, the latch holding back the knife is opened via lever mechanism, and the blade falls rapidly toward the victim’s neck from a height of about 2 – 3 meters. The severed head gets lifted and presented to the crowd of spectators. It is believed the offender can still perceive things with his eyes for another 10 seconds after decapitation.
The design of this instrument allows for the death penalty to be carried out every 10 seconds, turning the process into a bloody conveyor belt. During the French Revolution, everyone charged with supporting the aristocracy was subject to immediate beheading, with the victims by means of Guillotine during the “Reign of Terror” numbering between 15-40 thousand citizens.
An interesting fact: The last execution by guillotine was performed in Marseille, during the reign of Giscard d’Estaing, September 10, 1977. The man executed was Hamida Djandoubi, of Muslim origin. Not only was it the last instance of the guillotine’s use, but also the last death penalty carried out in Western Europe.
You knew this man? What can be done for him now — he’s a prisoner of the State. He’s been scheduled for a date with Her Majesty’s Guillotine. The sentenced man’s hands have been tied behind his back. His head is covered by a sack. The criminal requests that the sack be removed so that he may look his executioners in the eyes. They say that this is bravery, however it seems to me that to not see — that is even scarier. The executioner gently, but also very purposefully, helps the man onto the bench. The man’s self-control leaves him for the slightest moment and he tries to get up on all fours, only to fall once more onto the rough wood. The movable board silently slides up along the runners that have been greased with animal fat. This man they’ve arrested is now laid upon the polished semicircle by the scruff of his unshaven neck, and then immediately clamped down with the upper plank. For the next step, the hands of our morally defeated prisoner are hung through the borings on either side of him. A priest reads a prayer, but the condemned man doesn’t understand its meaning. His terror-stricken heart beats like a drumroll. There is a short command, and a merciless hand pulls the latch.
It’s all over within a third of a second. The massive knife drops down and makes a muffled strike into the wooden platform. A fountain of blood sprinkles the boards. The space between executed man’s shoulders reminds one of a cross-section of some kind of exotic fruit. The man continues to neurotically clench his fists, but he is already without a head. The dexterous executioner snatches it out of the air, holds it by the hair, and presents it to the dumbstruck crowd. The headless body feels pain for another 10 seconds, and bulging eyespi still see. At least, that is what many say, but no one can know for sure.
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The guillotine was sitting on the kitchen table when I returned home from school that Spring day, left behind by my decade-older brother. It stood about 18" high, with a metal blade wedged between the wooden verticals — grooved for the blade’s easy descent. The top center of the blade had a hole drilled in it, a leather cord tied through, and the free end was looped around a nail hammered askew to keep the blade fixed until time for an execution.
My brother had a report due on Marie Antoinette that week, visual aids gave extra credit. As woodshop was beloved and history was not at this point in his life, much more energy went into this extra credit than did the paper itself.
While eyeing the rough semi-circle cut into the guillotine base for cradling necks, I mentally inventoried my stuffed animals, my dolls, and eventually, thought it the perfect size for my Barbie doll…or maybe Skipper.
I’d had to beg for more than a year for any type of doll like Barbie as she was looked at with scorn by both my mother and sister. Barbie was the exact image of everything frightful a girl could emulate, in my household’s opinion, and she looked scarily like some of my southern U.S. classmates’ mothers, especially in her cruise-in-the-convertible outfit she wore in the Sears Christmas catalog.
I thought she was fabulous for exactly the same reasons. My opinions were heightened by the ban placed on her purchase by my progressive mother, who looked nothing like anyone else’s mother, much less like Barbie cruising in her convertible.
Once my pleas were successful and Barbies were ensconced in my room, my fascination with them was short-lived. They were hard dolls, not cuddly at all, and too late I realized their hair wouldn’t grow back after cutting — even with shampoos, even after six months. The only fun part left was changing their clothes, and unlike at my friends’ houses, my dolls were clothed as plainly as I was.
To my frugal Yankee mother, indulging a child with pretty things, much less indulging a Barbie (“A Bar-r-rbie,” she would say with dripping disdain), was the fastest way to ensure a girl would be frivolous, materialistic, a gold digger, or worst of all, just like the other girls’ Atlanta, Georgia mothers who adorned themselves with pink and lace.
It was homemade polyester Stretch-and-Sew creations for my Barbie and me.
By the time the guillotine arrived, I was bored with not only my botched-hair Barbie and her Plain Jane clothes, but also my bendy-legged Barbie, my home-made-crew-cut adorned Skipper, and the sole Ken owned on our street. Ken was suspect to all of us kids, he looked like no one’s father and none of us knew what to do with him…even his store-bought clothes were weird.
The guillotine meant I could play ‘Marie Antoinette.’ My brother had told me all about her, embellishing the gory details, of course. Even as a child I loved history much more than dolls.
My first attempts at playing Marie Antoinette with Barbies were not very satisfying. The first drop of the guillotine blade merely bounced off ‘Marie’s’ neck and her head didn’t roll at all. Even after using the kitchen knife sharpener, that blade was dull as toast.
I re-set up shop in the carport as I’d promised I’d never make a mess in the house while home alone. I gathered the kitchen knives I’d also promised never to use — and the doomed royals, er, Barbies…and Ken. Why not? I thought, he’s dumb.
After noticing that the dolls’ knobby neckpieces were why I had no dramatic flourish of head rolling, I methodically sawed through all of them but Ken’s, leaving beige bits of plastic scattered around on the cement carport floor. Ken’s neck was remarkably stubborn and I soon gave up on him to focus my attention on the real actors in this drama, the Barbie-Maries.
Placing the dolls’ heads back onto their jaggedly chopped neckstubs, I chose my first Marie and awkwardly walked her up the pirates’ gangplank to meet her fate (I wasn’t sure the original Marie walked a gangplank but it seemed like the right kind of thing). I then laid her down on the guillotine, neck positioned carefully — not only for tender last rites, but for the best possibility of a long head roll across the carport, hoping it might even roll off the edge into the azalea bush below.
I wanted Barbie’s death to be just like Marie Antoinette’s.
I ghoulishly imagined the head-roll.
(To be fair to my imaginative child-self, my father had just died, this perfectly good guillotine shows up, I’d been raised among Barbie mockers…and then there’s my brother’s gory details. Death was on my mind.)
After a few tries and a couple tweaks to increase the inclined plane of the guillotine base — success! Marie’s head not only chopped right off, but even rolled a few inches. The short hair caused too much drag, slowing down her head roll though, so a few more snips and the now mostly-bald heads gave me the rolling distance I was looking for.
(My fellow history fan friend in Paris assures me this pre-head-chopping hair-chopping also happened to the original Marie.)
With the addition of ketchup stuffed into their hollow heads — yes, sadly— I was satisfied with my historic re-creation and played happily executing wicked royals until dusk gathered in. Growing hungry, I went inside searching for a snack, leaving the detritus of my game messily scattered and forgotten. Sticky heads slowly glued themselves to the carport floor as the ketchup congealed.
When my mother came home that evening, she wore a somber countenance and seemed more quiet than usual. After an absent-minded kiss to my forehead combined with a chin-hold and concerned look in my eyes, she went out of the room. I soon heard the mumble of her voice on the phone, a usual nightly ritual. She was on the phone for a long time that night.
The next day during school, I was surprised and horrified to hear my name blaring over my elementary class intercom, followed by: “…please come to the office, your mother is here to pick you up.” I reluctantly went, she briskly did, and soon we were headed off to a destination unknown to me, unspoken by her.
“This is Dr. Pompous — he would like to ask you some questions,” my mother said when we’d arrived at the dark, cavernous office stuffed with books and smelling of cigars and leather. As she backed away and exited, relief was clearly visible on her face that this was not going to be her question-and-answer session.
I suppose he did ask me questions about my Marie Antoinette game and I must have answered, but the memories that linger are these: being left alone with a total stranger who was old and rather beaky-nosed with spectacles; his one long black nostril hair that swayed gently in and out with each of his in- and ex-halations; the slick burgundy leather sticking to the backs of my legs as I wondered idly whether my legs would ever grow long enough for my feet to touch the ground when I sat on a couch.
After my mother rejoined us, Dr. Pompous prepared his pronouncement. As Mom sat down beside me, her feet barely touched the ground themselves.
“Your daughter has Penis Envy,” the psychiatrist declared.
That made me sit up and take notice.
Envy? One of the Top Ten’s ‘Envy’ ? I knew about that word from church…and why did he say…penis?! Boy, was this guy in trouble. Or I was, it was hard to tell.
I glanced over to see my mother’s mottled glare.
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! I knew I shouldn’t have let So-and-So talk me into this… Daughter, it’s time to go.” She grabbed my hand and we walked out the door.
On the way back to school my mother finally asked,” Why did you cut off all the Barbie doll heads?”
“…and chop off all their hair, chop up all their necks?”
“Why did you leave the Ken doll alone? Why wasn’t his head chopped?”
Silence reigned for the rest of the ride back to school.
When I got home that afternoon, the cleaned-up guillotine and the cleaned-up Barbies, Skipper and Ken, were all arrayed on my dresser ready to play with some more. The ketchup disappeared— and there were no more visits to Dr. Pompous.
(…and very soon after that, I was enrolled in after-school gymnastics, after-school band, and after-school kids group.)
Personal essay, memoir, photography, poetry, humor — what’s going on in your community? What’s the world like where you are? I don’t request stories — or edit them! — but am happy to consider your piece. @JustThinkingNow or annaherrington2@gmail.com
Writer, photographer, gardener, lover of family life and the wild, dreamer ~ Writing: views, photo essays, memoir, fiction, the world ~ @JustThinkingNow
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The Victim is placed on the guillotine Published: May 23, 2021
The Victim is then placed on the guillotine. The guards bind her ankles and adjust her head beneath the blade.
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Laura cried when she saw her name appear on the TV. She had won the lottery of future subjects of entertainment executions. A mere 19 years of age, she now confronted death.
It was barely five minutes after the announcement was made that military officers appeared at her door, and escorted her to a secret prison facility in an unmarked prison van. She cried the whole way there. In this moment, there was nothing she regretted more than entering the lottery. But she had needed the money.
Fresh out of high school, her parents refused to pay for college or provide their beautiful daughter with a place to call home. So Laura had few options. Without an education, she wouldn’t survive long in the unforgiving world. Therefore, she entered the execution lottery. And now it was her turn to be put to death.
As the van pulled closer to the gates, Laura could read the words “Federal Termination Facility Foxtrot” inscribed on the sign outside the electric fence. The gates swung open, admitting the van within the compound. The van pulled up to a large concrete building and Laura was pulled from the vehicle. A black hood was immediately drawn over her head, concealing part of her long, silky, brown hair. After being escorted down a maze of halls, she finally reached the cell assigned to her. Once the hood was removed, she could see up and down the hall, lined with hundreds of occupied cells. Each cell contained a young lady, much like herself. They were all naked, officially to prevent them from concealing any weapons or tools to escape, but unofficially, it was to acclimate them to public nudity, for they would be unclad during their executions. Laura’s cell door was slid open and Laura thrust inside. A guard followed her in and ordered her to face the wall. She complied and he proceeded to forcefully strip her down to her lingerie, which he told her she was permitted to wear until her first “tribulation session” as he called it. Laura had not the slightest clue as to what that might be, but she was certain it was not to be pleasant.
The next day Laura awoke to a loud banging on her cell door. A single guard opened it and ordered her to stand up. He then proceeded to handcuff her and lead her down the long hallway. Laura saw that everyone's eyes were following her with a look of pity and terror. As Laura and her escort got closer to their destination, she could hear muffled screams of agony. They became louder the longer the pair walked. Finally, they reached an unoccupied room. Laura was forced inside and forced to lay on her back on the metal table in the center of the room. Her hands and ankles were restrained to the table by metal rings protruding from it. A different guard approached her and began to speak.
“Execution Subject number 4421.” He began “You will be executed in four days time. This is not your execution. At this time, you will be subjected to pain in order to prepare you for your execution. Now, please remember that this will not kill you.” The solemn officer continued The purpose of this is to increase your endurance so that you will last longer, so to speak, during your actual termination.”
With that, he reached down and grabbed Laura’s panties and produced a pair of scissors. He then cut off the panties, leaving her clean shaven pudendum exposed. He did the same with her pink bra, allowing her firm breasts to be fully appreciated by any onlooker. Then, two more guards walked up to her and began to prepare her for the agony she would soon experience. They inserted a metal rod into both her butt and vagina, and clipped wires to her nipples. Then, the two men retreated to opposite corners of the room.
Without any warning, electricity began to shoot through Laura’s naked body. She let out an ear splitting scream and thrashed about on the table. The pain continued for several more minutes before it became even more dreadful, and Laura’s cries became even louder. Finally, after what felt like h
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