Flies landed and nibbled at the eye socket, seemingly happy at the newfound treasure. I could still make out the green iris, forever frozen in surprise. The blood, dried in the air, the burnt umber flecks matted in the black hair around the blotched, purple cheekbone. The leaves cradling its swift perfection had turned colors with the change of season and seeping of grey matter. The crisp breeze blew the smell of death toward me, and I breathed in, slow and deep. Satisfaction and accomplishment coursed through my veins. My hands gripped tighter around the axe hilt once more, knowing justice had been served… and severed once more. Such is life of the executioner.