The Last Hanging
"I want to be a lifeguard, like my father." The teacher said that was my son's answer when she asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. She then sat across from me, investigating my coarse appearance with contempt, looking rather appalled.
"I understand the complexity of the situation, but it's about time he knew. You know you should do something to reduce the shock by then."
"Well, you know my job is kind of sensitive, and kids tend to have big mouths." I replied coldly.
"But, a lifeguard? Your son thinks of you as a superhero!"
"Well, I wouldn't put it that way…"
"Let me ask you something," She interrupted. "Are you satisfied with what you do?"
I could clearly see the reason behind her question, what I couldn't see was the answer she was expecting. Are you satisfied with what you do? A perfectly normal question, if asked to a baker or a blacksmith, not a hangman. You don't ask a hangman if he's satisfied with his job. If you must, ask him how he feels when he takes the life of someone he believes to be innocent the same way he takes that of a serial killer, or how he grows nauseated each time someone drops through that trap door and turns into a lifeless body swinging in the wind, all in the matter of minutes.
"Excuse me" The teacher's voice brought me back to reality. "Are you satisfied with your job?"
"Well, I'm just another human being."
She forced a heavy smile and said nothing, perhaps wondering what my answer had to do with anything, or even trying to draw a mental image of the Angel of Death, while I assured her it wasn't me.