We are all birthed in red, our hands already stained—not with the blood of the womb, but with the silence of inherited violence, the weight of a world we learned to turn from. We are granted blissful ignorance by our gods—the Father, the Mother—and we parade through streets dyed crimson, smiling as we grow, forgetting as we must. But the question remains, bleeding out: What is innocence in a world of universal complicity? If no soul is free of guilt, then is innocence merely an illusion we cling to… or is it the one thing that truly accompanies the blood?
For Charles-Henri Sanson, the question was not a philosophy to be debated in smoky cafes. It was the cold, sharp edge of his reality. He was the next Monsieur de Paris, the hand that held the blade, the soul that is forbidden to look away. A soul that cannot close its eyes because reality is etched on the back of its eyelids. In front of his black irises stood his father, with a raised hand clenched around a silver blade. They stood together, the death that is at the end of his life, and the reaper that will begin to harvest. Jean-Baptiste Sanson, his father, his skin was the white that resembled a corpse losing its color, faded to a slight grey of frost on a coffin lid. A few lines deeply set on his face, like cracks in ancient porcelain, mapping his lifetime and the lives he took as well.
Charles-Henri's white tint skin that was still evident on his father was subdued on him, locked deep within, giving him the opaque milky sheen of a pearl formed around a core of sorrow. His eyes were the color of a bottomless well, a deep and unsettling blackness. Framed by a fringe of white lashes, fine as frost crystals. They were sharply angled, a gaze from a fox considering the worth of a caught bird. His long hair was the color of snow blanketing the green of summer, heralding the coming winter. Reflected in Charles' eyes was the image of his father swinging the blade towards a kneeling man. The man's face is riddled with tears and maybe, a hint of what seemed to be acceptance of an end. Before the blade could sever the man's neck Charles quickly shut his eyes. But, no sound...no scream rang through the air.
He peeked to see what was happening only to see his father hung in the air by a nonexistent noose. Jean was not alarmed as he quickly dropped to the ground, coughing violently.
Cough! Cough!
Cough! Cough!
Charles turned to see that the kneeling man was now suspended midair. His hands grasped at his throat. This was the execution that the man's ancestors had chosen for him. This was the Fracture of the Sanson family. Atavistic Resonance. The blade is simply a tool to deliver the means, not the true punishment. This Fracture grants the Sansons the ability to transfer the death suffered by an individual's ancestor to the current descendant. However, the method of death, although milder and weaker, must first be experienced by the wielder of the blade. A blade that scrapes the wielder before beheading the opponent. A blade that Charles-Henri has to take.
"Louis-Antoine. Your great grandfather assaulted a nobleman as he was leisurely riding in his carriage. He used a rusted knife to stab the noble, resulting in his death. For this, your great grandfather was sent to the gallows. I have been shown this. Today, the fate bestowed upon you is from the blood you carry," Jean-Baptiste put forth, his hand rubbing his own throat. "Marie-Anne, record the revelation," said Jean-Baptiste.
Behind Charles, a young woman with a lighter skin tone, ash colored eyes and long white hair tied in a bun, held a notebook in hand. She quickly jotted down what she heard and turned to face Charles, the same time as Jean. Charles faced the wooden planks on the ground, his eyes tightly shut. The expression on his father's face quickly turned to one of anger, disappointment and to that of…sympathy. With wide gaits and strides, Jean rushes to Charles' side. His large cold hands grabbing his son's face and making him face the man swinging in the air. What sound is emitted by a man who has been hung? The sound of urine running down bare thighs. The sound of flies forming a cluster on the feces spread across his cheeks. The sound of clapping and cheering from an audience.
"Charles, look. You have to see. I cannot let you turn your gaze. Look at him," Jean-Baptiste said.
"I am looking. Even with my eyes closed, I always see. I cannot close my eyes. I am always looking," thought Charles. Two tears forming rivers that run across his cheeks.
Marie's eyes steal a quick glance at Charles, she shakes her head slightly before turning to look at the hanging man. Her eyes lit with a bright glint, a hint of intrigue plastered on her face. She takes the pencil that she's been biting into this entire time and opens her notebook.
"... the time after death has not passed the ten minute mark yet the body has already gone through a dramatic change. His face and lips have turned into a bluish-purple color. Reminds me of the color during a certain stage of decomposition of skin. Tiny pinprick red spots can be seen across the face. Most noticeably, around the eyelids and sclera. This is due to the result of burst capillaries. The eyes are bulging outward and it seems as if the man is staring forward, or maybe at father. Maybe Charles thinks the man is looking at him."
She records her thoughts on a separate notebook and tucks it in her purse, before turning and heading to the family carriage waiting for them at the edge of the street. Its interior is hidden by the black curtains hung inside. Those who peek through the window would only be met with a blackness. Marie sits on her side by the window, waiting for her father and elder brother. Jean bursts through the doors, crouching avoiding the low ceiling. Charles could barely stand on his own two feet. His slightly trembling hand, tightening into a small fist. His teeth biting into his lower lips, blood slowly dripping to his chin. He sits beside Marie, both of them sitting opposite their father.
Marie only moves her eyes to look at her brother before handing him a handkerchief. Charles bows slightly with his head, accepting the handkerchief and placing it above his mouth. Perhaps it's his attempt to swallow the words climbing the inner walls of his throat, or to mask the silence that has haunted him all these years. Jean-Baptiste watches this encounter between the two of his children, clicking his tongue before turning his head to look at the black curtains. He did not wish to see. For him, there was no one there to grab his face and make him face the sight of his child. There was no one.
"Marie, Charles is to read the collection of Archives from 1725," Jean put forth. "And your mother said we will probably return to dinner already on the table."
"Archives from the year 1725? Those records?" Marie looks at Charles, whose expression filled with disbelief and horror. His skin tone now turned to a deathly white. "Yes father," said Marie.
"But fath–," Charles' sentence is cut short. His father's stern gaze became a period ending a sentence before it could even take form.
The sound of the wooden wheels trampling on rock fills the surroundings. The sound of the galloping of hooves in rhythmic sync with a chuckle. A small frail laugh hidden behind bloody lips. A look of worry and confusion on Marie's face. She turns to look at her Father but it seems he can't hear Charles. Has he ever even listened to him? She scans Charles' face and she can't explain it. Eyes that held back streams of crashing waters, hidden by lips curved into a…smile? It should've been a smile. Charles covers his mouth with the handkerchief and turns to face his shoes. They were a stark black and although not visible, he saw it, the red beneath the soles of his feet.
…
I gaze at the family seated around a dinner table fit for five. In front of me is a vacant seat. My seat. A seat I cannot fit into, nor do I wish to. Nonetheless, I lower myself onto the soft cushion. Between me, between polished forks and spoons, rests a deep earthenware dish. Mother serves a wedge of dark, almost black pie onto my plate. The crust is sturdy but inside…the inside is a gelatinous red-black with translucent slivers of onion. It smells of iron, pepper and cream. I take my fork and break the pies' surface; the exterior oozing thickly like a wound.
I do not eat.
"Sang de boeuf. Gabriel's favourite," says Mother.
I watch as Father carves deep into the wound. As Mother does the same. As Marie and little brother follow. They consume it.
I do not eat.
My fork simply hovers, then presses down, carving a portion I will not lift. I carve at the pie. I carve at the wound. A wound invisible to the human eye, yet bleeding out endlessly.
I am an open wound.