North Bend Library Writing Contest

The Executioned

By Claire C

I sit in silence, the only sound being the eerie buzzing of the flickering light bulb above me. It is swinging back and forth like a giant pendulum, reflecting how much time I have left to live of the miserable occurrences and misfortunes that I called my life. The dull, tinted yellow with age glow flickers shadows against the paved concrete floor. When most imagine prison cells, they think of the small figures of rats running in and out of the cracks in the walls. But there are no cracks in this empty chamber.

All there is are grey, solid walls that could crush me with a single impact, so strong that no rodent could maul through them. I take a deep breath and grimace. The musty scent of bleach and mold creeping beneath the layers of plaster that have been repainted a smoggy grey fills my mouth and I shudder. It lingers like the death that soon awaits me. One would think that they would provide more luxuries for a soon to be dead man but no, they insist on imprisoning me in this wretched cell, so empty that not as much as a spider loiters across the ceiling, taunting me with its free will. The message is clear: I will die alone.

My breathing is quiet but ragged, and yet it still echoes through the large, empty room as if I had shouted. Although there are no mirrors, I know my face is pale as a sheet of paper, a sickly pallid. My muscles are so very tense from sitting motionlessly at the rigid table that is coated with a clumsy black paint job. The table is badly scratched, as if the last person who sat there had scraped their fingernails across it a sudden burst of desperate fury to escape, rage transforming their mind into something animalistic.

My eyes wander aimlessly to the door. It’s solid metal and locked, as if they’re afraid a weaponless man could somehow figure out how to break down the doors. I’m twitching at the slightest creak in the walls, my heart leaping at the thought of death being so close. Already my heart is pounding like a muffled, but nevertheless loud, drum. The sound seems to be filling the room and seeping through the walls, and I wonder foolishly whether the people on the other side can hear my heartbeat. I attempt to utter a whisper but to no avail; then a scream, but still no sound emits from my throat. I come to the conclusion that my vocal cords have failed on me when I need them most. Perhaps already I am dead. But that wouldn’t explain why I can still hear my heart thumping irregularly in my chest, haunting me with the fact that the pain isn’t over, and won’t be over until I’m given the death I deserve.

Memories repeat sequentially, pulsing in my mind like a wild fire gone astray. I remember as if it had happened seconds ago, the fear written across the girl’s face as the overwhelming desire to kill thrashed through my body like a rabid animal, unthinking and driven by desire. I suppose I had acted merely on instinct. My temper always seemed to edge towards insanity. But when that insufferable girl, only fourteen years old, refused to give me the money I needed to buy gasoline for my car a wave of fury had washed over me like a wave crashing across a beach, wiping out everything in its path. I had been sitting at the side of the road for many long hours, just lounging on the sidewalk as I let the scorching sun roast the nape of my neck. I could practically hear the metal mailbox nearby sizzling. I was sure that if I even stroked a light fingertip against the mailbox, my finger would surely burn. Maybe the heat had caused me to act such brutally; perhaps the sun was boiling the blood rushing through my veins.

There was no one in sight to lend me cash; whenever I spotted the flicker of a curtain I walked over only to hear the sound of the door locking. People have called me intimidating, frightening even. With my looming height of six feet and five inches and lumbering body weight I certainly could be identified as the sort of man you wouldn’t want to deal with on the streets. And yet here I was, awaiting my execution, frightened as a child. I had grown restless and tired of waiting, but I kept myself from doing something too idiotic, like smashing my own red convertible. Then I saw my opportunity. A girl with short brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail taking out the trash. Her skin was tan from the long summer days and she looked relaxed, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, which infuriated me even more. I had walked briskly over to her, trying to appear to be a friendly, pleasant sort of man, not at all someone with a horrible criminal record of theft. I had asked, as politely as possible, for five dollars. At first the girl looked a little nervous and quickly replied that she was out of money. I somehow managed to keep myself calm as I explained my situation, that I had been standing out here for many long hours and really need a few bucks.

The girl had then put her hands on her hips and actually taunted me, asking why I didn’t just earn my own money or get a job. Why couldn’t she understand, I wondered furiously, the struggle I faced, the fact that I couldn’t get a job? I had raised an arm to threaten her and saw her flinch; the fear in her hazel eyes betrayed her. But she merely stood her ground and continued to jeer at me. One swift movement and she hit the pavement with a small cry. I heard a sickening crack and saw, to my satisfaction, tears welling up in her eyes. I was about to demand money and leave when I realized how very severe this could be. With my criminal record the police might send me to jail for five more years due to child abuse.

So I had panicked, grabbing a knife from my jacket and jerking it into her body. My aim was perfect, it immediately pierced her heart and within seconds she lay rigid on the ground, dead. I heard a scream and looked up to see a woman standing in the doorway, sobbing the words “Amy” She had a phone in her hands and I saw her press three buttons. 911. Because of my gasless car, there was no chance for escape. I was handcuffed within mere minutes and stayed around long enough for a doctor to pronounce this girl, Amy, dead. Heart pounding, I was thrown into a slightly smaller prison cell while I awaited execution.

Due to my previous break from jail, the judge sentenced me to death. It rained the day they tossed me into the cell I resume now, as if reflecting the sorrow that I caused for Amy’s family and friends. There is nothing but a chair and a table to comfort me, which I sit in all day, counting the seconds until my death. I must have looked afraid to the guards because he had kindly informed me that it would be a painless death, a simple lethal injection. It would be only about a minute before my body shut down on me, the most painful part would be having the needle stabbed into my flesh. Somehow, his words hadn’t eased my worry. Now I wait in silence, dread flowing through my body as effortlessly as blood does. I took a deep shuddering breath.

Now all I can do is wait.

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Last Updated: January 20, 2010