The wagon hits a small bump, and the lid of the box bounces slightly. It cannot move much while you are sitting on it, of course. You glance down at the crude pine coffin that will soon be your final rest and you move your skirt aside. It seems so common, so plain. Certainly not the end you had in mind when you first came to this god forsaken corner of the wilderness.
You look up at the elm tree. Several small branches have been cleared away from the side of the tree by the road. A single large branch some twelve feet above the grass has a single rope dangling from it. The breeze causes the rope to sway gently back and forth. It might almost be waving at you. The loop tied in the end seems to almost beckon to you.
The sheriff drives the wagon slowly, so that everyone in the crowd has a good chance to look at you. Many of the men were customers of yours in the dance hall. Then they were eager to be with you. This morning they have come to see you perform a different sort of dance. Many of them are smiling; some are jeering. You hear someone make a ribald joke at your expense.
As wagon pulls under the shade of the elm tree, the sheriff slows the team. The deputy who tied the rope for you waves back the crowd to make room for the wagon. With a flick of the reins the sheriff steers under the bare branch. He is bringing you to your rope.
You drop your eyes. At the moment you cannot bear to look upon the noose. You can see the fine white gown you elected to wear today. You had hoped to be married in this gown, but the chance of a good marriage never appeared. Without a husband there were too few chances for a woman to make a living on the edge of the wilderness. No one had enough money to hire a domestic, so working in the dance hall was a single step above starving to death. It's funny in a way; the night before you agreed to submit to that line of work, you had seriously considered hanging yourself, instead. Now you are going to hang anyway.
Life in the dance hall had not been too bad. Not as bad as you had feared anyway. Most of the men had been reasonably friendly. Only twice had you been beaten by drunks, and only one of those times were you really hurt. Some working girls were not so lucky. Just a couple of months ago, one of the girls had her back broken when an angry man had tossed her out of a second floor window. After she died, they hanged the man.
The sheriff stops the wagon under the rope. You raise your eyes to the noose, only a few short feet from your neck. It does not seem to be waving or beckoning now. It seems distant, and unreal. The sheriff climbs into the back of the wagon and steps over to you. He takes your arm in hand, and pulls you to your feet.
You had not really meant to kill the other girl. The fight over money now seems so unimportant. The anger had just seemed to run away with your good sense. You had grabbed the scarf she had around her shoulders, and wrapped it around her neck. You pulled, and pulled. She had squirmed, and struggled, and pushed you away. In a way her struggles had been almost sensual. The way her hips between your legs had rubbed at your intimate recesses had surprisingly affected you. Was that why you did not stop pulling? Because you liked the way her struggles rubbed against your sensitive skin?
Standing, you find that the noose is just in front of your face, with the knot at eye level. The sheriff pulls your hands around behind you. You can feel as he begins to wrap a leather cord around your wrists. Three turns around, and a quick knot to hold it. The straps are too tight, but it would do little good to complain now.
The sheriff steps to your side. You look at his face, and for a minute your eyes meet his. He looks somewhat sad, but determined to do his duty. You feel warmth in your face, and your vision clouds for a moment as tears well in your eyes. Of all the men in town who had come to spend the night with you, the sheriff had been your favorite. He had been kind, and considerate. He had always taken an interest in ensuring that you had the chance to enjoy the experience as much as he had. You had even secretly harbored the hope that someday he might take you away from the dance hall. Well, now he was, but not quite the way you had hoped.
For a moment his eyes seem to be apologizing for what he must do. Then his face turns away. You can feel the wetness of your tears rolling down your cheek. He takes the noose and lifts it. You feel him place it over your head. You see the rope pass by your eyes as he pulls it down around your neck. You turn your head, and watch him as he takes the knot in one hand and the rope in the other to tighten the halter against your right ear.
Again your eyes meet his, but this time he refuses to maintain the contact. He steps away toward the front of the wagon. You turn and look out over the crowd. Most of them are men, but there are a few women as well. A hanging is a good show in this boring little town, and perhaps hanging a pretty woman draws an extra large gathering. You look down. Your tan slippers are a step from the back of the wagon. Beyond the back of the wagon the ground is three feet below. Three feet that seem like a vast cliff.
You feel the wagon shudder as the sheriff climbs back to the seat. For just a moment, you are intensely aware of your surroundings. You can feel the hair on the back of your neck tingle with the breeze across it. The hair on the side of your head is pulling tightly into the bun you tied high on the back. The rope itself is rough around the tender skin of your neck, and it itches just a little. Your breasts are tightly bound in the bodice of your gown. The waist is a little too tight, too. Odd, you notice that inside the bodice of the gown, you can feel your nipples pressing hard against the fabric, as if they are erect and aroused. The leather strap around your wrist is pulling your arms back, and that is thrusting your breasts out. You stand straight in the back of the wagon, with your head proudly up.
The men in the crowd must see your figure in sharp relief.
You hear the sheriff flick the reins, and then he barks at the team pulling the wagon. There is a clatter of harness. The wagon jolts slightly, and begins to move. The rope pulls a bit, and you instinctively step forward. Your foot touches the edge of the wagon bed. You look down sharply. There is no where else to go, but the wagon is still moving. The rope moves by the side of your head, and then begins to pull. You realize that you don't want to go with the rope.
You scream.
The wagon pulls one way, while the rope around your neck pulls the other. The rope wins, and the wagon is no longer under your feet.
Your scream becomes a wet gurgle, as the rope digs into your neck. Your body swings out away from the retreating wagon. Your head is tilted at an odd angle, forced over by the rope pulling at your jaw. It hurts. The rope digging into your neck hurts.
You try to take a deep breath. The rope is squeezing your throat, and only a trickle of air passes its grip. You see the tree pass by you, and you swing under the branch. Unconsciously, you wave your feet around, trying to find some way to take the hurtful pressure off of your neck. You twist your body, and pull at the straps around your wrists. You can feel your skirt whispering against your legs as you kick. You want to get away.
You can hear the roar of the crowd. You realize that your struggles are providing them the dance they came to see. No matter, your body is struggling without the guidance of your mind. You realize, distantly, that you cannot escape, but you are unable to accept that reality.
You can not breathe. What little air had been able to pass the crushing grip on your neck, is no longer available. You feel light headed. You hear a rushing in your ears, as if a strong wind were blowing. Your vision is cloudy, and seems to be turning grey around the edges. It is hard to see the crowd and the tree, as they sway past.
Suddenly, it occurs to you that your struggles feel very much like the movements your body makes when you are in the throes of passion. The wiggling of your hips, and the shuddering of your breasts feel like they might if a man were plunged deep into you, and his touch was driving your senses. Your awareness drops between your legs, and you feel your secret pleasure. It seems warm and heavy between your legs. All the men are watching your pelvis twitch at them. All the men want you. You find their attention oddly arousing.
Your consciousness is fading. All that is real to you at that moment is the warm affectionate feeling between your legs. You wish there were some way someone could touch you ...
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