His Insanity

A brusk voice rose above the murmur. "Mr Speaker, how would one come to such a preposterous idea? Any discussion of this tradition, let alone action, question the very foundation upon which this society stands. In all respects, your excellency, please consider overhauling this proposal." Mr Redford took his moment with perfect assertiveness, the abrupt silence providing unexpected clarity. From this, an expression of withheld satisfaction clutched his face, and in accordance, he sat back down.

The Speaker, acknowledging Mr Redford in earnest, continued his address. "This proposal has been argued and measured by our countless predecessors for far too long. We've already considered the implications in this debate: the loss of life, the possible mass hysteria, the victims, and nearly every other factor, yet we can't fully agree on the necessary action. Thus, I have determined we must take a vote -  the process begins now."

The crowd departed their seats, each attendee filing to the centre aisle in an orderly fashion, silent throughout. When a line formed, the Speaker examined the various faces, painting his own to pass neutrality: a few expressed regret, others anxious glee, two solemn anticipation. Moving in disorganised rhythm, the line shortened as electives voted, eventually disbanding following Mr Redford's "No".

After a brief recess, the board of electives flooded in hushed and dreary; the Speaker noticed a heavy air set amongst the crowd, draining the previous tension of its inherent hostility. Succumbing to tiredness, he refused by commencing the vote count. "Chris Harley, elective for Canns, voted in favour. David Short, elective for Townsville, voted in favour..." The entire formality took one hour, and encountering the final slip, the Speaker read it out with a twinge of hesitation. "Mr Redford, elective for Nelson Creek, voted against."

"Forty-nine in favour, one against. The murder of this man is now legalised."

****

The man before him stood shivering, the subtle drizzle collecting on the umbrella's edge as he treaded carefully along the path. Behind him, a patient coveted his target from afar, his mind a tangle of broken words and flawed logic.

The voices in the patient's head explained his surroundings quite well.

He was the righteous hand, the key to a nation of stability and peace. Every decision laid forth was simple fact, supported by the house certified on ethics: who to torture, who to maim, who to kill. He saw no contradiction in their rulings, ascertaining that the accused were always unruly, uncouth, sour; the reasons for execution were never always clear.

The patient thought back to the time he left the asylum.

His caretaker never told him the exact condition that coursed through his skull; never told him what he did as the binds loosened in steady hands; never told him who they were as he felt a good man's essence leave in haste; never explained anything as he dragged that body away.

Realising the fading opportunity, the patient returned to reality. Drawing the blade in fierce preparation, the house adjourned, this man was a sinner.

As he pierced the skin, the house amended that decision.

As a dying breath left, the house voted in favour of judging all.

As the patient laid his victim to rest, starting the procedure by drilling his blade into the man's left eye, the house committed to a new verdict:

All are guilty.