The news images from ISIS I can’t get out of my head:
My own head itself I imagine falling, falling, hitting the ground, and my eyes look up to see the last thing they will ever see, the last thing my consciousness registers — my own body severed from my own head.
Then it’s over. I’m gone. Blood. Brain. Blackness. Without blood going to my brain, blackness, eternal darkness. No more now’s, before’s or after’s.
But in the world left behind, the world of time, the world of consciousness, of heads still attached, is there any possible justice?
This is my fantasy: That the beheaders be castrated and made to wear burqas.
Still better, leave their testicles intact but snip off their penises — using a very dull blade — leaving not even a stump, so as to live out the rest of their malignant lives painfully conscious of the perpetual torment of never fulfilled desire, nuts so full they become like tumors.