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The cell smelled of sweat, urine, and fear.
Lorraine’s body was a war zone: trembling limbs, bile rising in her throat, and a skull pounding like a drum in a dark, endless nightmare. The laudanum that had softened her life, the wine that had dulled her mind, were gone—and every nerve demanded they return.
And yet, death was coming anyway. The guillotine waited. She could hear the faint creak of its mechanics through the walls, a constant, taunting whisper.
Then came the shadows of authority.
Robespierre appeared at the doorway, eyes cold, his words sharp, slicing deeper than the guillotine’s blade ever could.
“No mercy, no delay, no pity. This is justice, Lorraine.”
His tone didn’t waver, didn’t flinch, and the cruelty in it burned hotter than any fever.
Lorraine tried to speak, but her throat was raw, words turning into choking gurgles. She rocked on the stone floor, clutching her shaking, hollowed body, nails digging into her palms as if she could dig herself out of fate. Her mind fractured. Every memory—dancing at court, laughing behind fans, raising glasses too high—clashed violently with her current torment.
The withdrawal hit in waves that made her scream into the emptiness: nausea that doubled her over, hot flashes and icy chills ripping through her like lightning, every muscle rebelling against her. Hallucinations flitted at the edges of her vision: ghostly courtiers, roaring mobs, the blade swinging closer, Robespierre’s mocking grin following her every twitch.
'Why… why me… why…'
she thought, but the words dissolved into a tide of agony. The pain, the fear, the betrayal of her own body, and the cruel, unblinking gaze of power—Robespierre—converged. Every heartbeat felt like an eternity, every breath a razor cutting through her chest.
When they finally dragged her to the scaffold, Lorraine’s body was a ruin, shaking uncontrollably, skin gray with withdrawal and terror. She stumbled, barely able to stand, while Robespierre’s eyes gleamed with the cold satisfaction of someone presiding over destruction.
Her body shook violently, teeth chattering, stomach twisting, limbs trembling as if the very air conspired against her. Withdrawal had hollowed her out, leaving only raw nerves and a gnawing, desperate need for one last comfort.
The scaffold loomed, cold and unyielding. Robespierre stood nearby, his expression a mask of merciless justice, eyes glinting with cruel anticipation. Lorraine’s throat burned, her tongue thick and swollen, but a spark of audacity—or perhaps sheer madness—flickered in her fevered brain.
She croaked, voice barely audible over the whispers of the crowd and the clatter of the executioner’s preparations:
"May… may I have some… wine… before you do it?"