Just one piece of bread. That's all I took. Yet now I face a punishment for my crimes, the worst punishment. The last punishment. Next to me, my brother faces the same punishment, I don't know what he did, I don't care what he did. All I know, is he disserved it. The tight rope binds my hands and tears at my malnourished skin causing a small stream of red blood to trickle down my wrists and into the floor. Beating down on my bare body, the sun cooks my back turning the skin red and flaky.

"Well?" He asks, I try to speak but nothing escapes my dry mouth but a quiet moan of defeat. "Have I annoyed you?" My brother said - the very man who abandoned our starving family and set off to make what looks to be a fortune from the expensive clothes on his back. Yet it doesn't matter anyway: rich, poor, we all die in the end. Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts frets his hour upon the stage. "Ok, if you aren't talking, I will," he begins to open his mouth before the executioner quickly stops him talking with a bull whip to his torso causing blood to steam down his back making his blue shirt red. A whimper escapes his lips. "QUIET!" The tall large man in a black hooded mask yells quickly putting an end to our conversation - or lack thereof.

Ahead of us, the old man in front on the stage ahead of us has the floor pulled from underneath him and is strangled until the last essence of life escape his sad wrinkled face. I pause. It is as if the world moves forward at half the speed. No longer is it the pain that I worry about, it is the humiliation of my lifeless body swinging in front of the sick minded crowd that has come to watch this hanging.

I swallow the lump in my throat and step up as my name is called, I can't control my limbs as they unwillingly trudge towards the gallows as if fate is walking me up there. The hooded man puts the bloody thick rope around my neck as if awarding me a medal and tightens it so that it is hard to breathe. I step on the trap door and look out over the sea of people. All have gathered to see a starving theif die for his sins. I look farther and see the stall from which I stole the loaf that ended my life, the slum like shack that my family had had to live in because of rich scum like my brother. "Good luck!" he shouts behind me. A pathetic attention at humour - gallows humour, and it fills me with rage. I think of the stall, it fills me with rage. I think of the audience, it fills me with rage. I don't feel sorrow, I don't feel remorse, I feel rage.