Momentum

A short story of life and death; the Holocaust and the French Revolution.

There is no other option for those of which who have already fallen, or have yet to fall. You're doomed from the start and once you realize this, you have to start running, running and never stopping for fear of being caught in the undertow of the chain of events.
It's the guillotine- it's either looming- teetering- overhead or it's already falling, cutting through the air above your head. There is no backing down because your path has been chosen, and there are no means of escaping the consequence of your actions like those you have escaped before. The crowd watches on, looking from face to face and wondering who may be ended next.
There's a sort of feel to the air once you realize your fate- heavier, untouching, as if the world already knows you will soon be gone, nothing more than a leaf in the wind. There's a pulling at your heart, as if Death himself already has his spindly skeleton fingers wrapped around your slow pulsing lifeblood, crooning that it's time to leave this place.
When I think of it, it's sitting on the edge of a cliff side, oblivious to all the bodies below until you are pushed off the edge like all the rest. There will be no step back once you're only surrounded by thin air that cannot hold your desperately reaching arms. We do not have the fragile, colorful wings of a butterfly to lift us up and carry us away- the world watches us fall with remorse, they cannot save us all.
You always have to watch- is it my turn for the seat at the guillotine?