Whir34
10-16-2014, 02:23 PM
** Hi, I am brand new to writing and I have only recently discovered how much I enjoy it although I have no idea if I have any potential or not. I am just looking to post a few stories and get any feedback and will also try and read as many as I can and let people know if I enjoyed their story. I have never ever shared any of my work before so I thought I would start with the very first story I ever wrote which was about an execution. thanks **
...Do I deserve this? Maybe I do, maybe I don't. The only fact that really matters now is that it is happening and I am no longer the captain of my own fate. My death will now be dealt out to me by strangers who do not know or care for me. Maybe it would be best for the world as a whole if my misguided soul was no longer around..….
I shuffle reluctantly through the grey, narrow corridor savouring every last sensation I have left to experience on this Earth - the feel of the cold floor beneath my feet, the lulling sound of human voices, the distant smell of disinfectant and the taste of bitter coffee in my mouth.
The corridor is long and I am escorted by two guards, a grim looking executioner, a priest and an overweight medical doctor.
For once in my brief and shallow life, I exist completely in the here and now, instead of torn between the pain of the past and a desperate yearning for a better future.
I feel like maybe this walk will go on for eternity, and I will become good chums with these people, sharing jolly tales of the past when I was free and innocent; when we were all free and innocent.
But now all is silent and I try to start a conversation with the guard to my left.
"You got any plans tonight buddy, maybe going for a few beers or a pizza? Got a nice missus to get it on with, maybe watch some red movies?" I ask.
He just stares at me blankly and then looks away quickly as pity starts to surface in his eyes so I turn my attention to the executioner.
"Where were you educated? I’m thinking about joining the business; get myself some experience so I can kill someone for real, how many you done? You can teach me the tricks. Come on man, we can be partners!"
I laugh heartily.
He, however, does not seem amused and I am not even graced with a look of pity this time.
My dream of an eternal walk is swiftly crushed as we step across the threshold into the execution chamber and I arrive at the place of my destiny, the chair waiting patiently like a Venus flytrap.
Everything is metallic and grey, all cold hard surfaces and harsh fluorescent light. The air is heavy, my vision blurry with tears.
At the sight of the chamber something inside of me dies leaving a gaping void. Hope flies away like a stray bird and my spirit is drained but somehow I manage to retain the dignity of humour.
"What kind of goddamn cinema is this? Where you guys gonna sit? Hope it’s a comedy, need a good laugh, you guys are sooo dull!" I am almost certain that I catch a slight smirk from the second guard.
They take me to the chair and I am strapped in across the chest, thighs, legs and arms. A leather face mask with eye holes is placed over my head. Two copper electrodes are attached, one to my shaven leg and the other contained within a helmet atop my bald head. Brine soaked water leaks slightly down my cheek. I have already been provided with a diaper which I am wearing underneath my blue overalls.
A memory flashes through my mind.
……..I am ten years old sitting on the small patio in our humble garden with my mother. It is mid summer and the sun is shining gloriously and daffodils are in full bloom. We are drinking ice cool lemonade and eating ripe apples from the small tree at the bottom of our garden near the gate. A butterfly flutters nearby, darting here and there, and in my sensitive way I am thinking about how beautiful everything is, all in its right place. I feel like we are finally getting back to normal after the death of my father to cancer two years ago. The butterfly lands gracefully on the table next to us, maybe taking a rest. The pattern on its wings seem to have meaning as if the insect is trying to convey some mysterious message to us, red, brown and purple, but it seems too beautiful and somehow this moment suddenly feels fake, like a mockery of the true nature of life......I crush the butterfly mercilessly beneath my flexed fist. I am shocked; the butterfly was harmless, just minding his own business and I took its life away for no reason. Knowing that my mother is a great lover of all creatures large and small, holding everything sacred, her reaction to me is no surprise. Initial outrage, sending me to my room where I sit brooding on my sin till tea time when she lets me out briefly, followed by cold disdain. At dinner she is distant, ignoring my vain attempts at conversation. This goes on for a few days and I am beginning to feel totally alone and unloved but as the days go by she welcomes me back into her loving embrace and care and we take a trip to the beach and all is ok again. She says, "You're a bad apple sometimes son but you are my apple and I love you no matter what......
A glass window separates me from a small crowd of people divided by a central partition.
To the left are twelve people, mainly strangers except for the few I recognise from the trial, presumably the family and friends of the victim, here to see that justice is finally done. Their heads are bowed and they seem solemn. A young woman dressed in black, sitting with a small blond girl, is crying and I recognise them from the trial as the wife and child of the victim.
To the right, as grim and final proof that I have sowed much hate in the world but little love, sit only three people - Aunty Joyce who is my mother’s sister, an old friend, Josh Regan, and my attorney, Frederick Fernandez, all unable to meet my gaze. My mother’s absence pierces my heart like no blade could. During my two years on death row, I sent her many letters, pleading for her to come and visit me; however, presumably immersed in shame, I received no reply.
Her absence here today symbolises that love is conditional. Although she could still find it in her heart to love me after small offences such as the merciless destruction of a butterfly, the killing of an innocent man in a botched armed robbery is unforgivable.
The priest reads me my last rites and although I have never been a religious man I take great comfort from the requests for forgiveness and the promises of an afterlife. I believe that if I was given another chance at this life I would become a devoted monk, staking my whole life on the possibility of a caring God, praying all day and night.....maybe this belief would have led me away from the path of misguided adventure.
"May God have mercy on your soul."
In my unrelenting way that has been with me always, I try to think of a witty reply to this comment but words have finally failed me.
"Do you have any last words at this time?”
As if I have stepped outside of my own restrained body, I hear myself screaming, "I thought you loved apples. I want to be a good apple," and then something bizarre, which made all heads bow even further, "I’m sorry I killed that butterfly. It was just a poor little butterfly minding its own business, so peaceful. I want to see the sun one more time, let me see the sun."
In the murky depths of my functioning mind, I realize that I am now completely delirious.
My eyes are blurred by tears, but as they begin to clear I see a vision which swiftly clears my mind. The stray bird of hope returns to its nest as I see my mother. She stands at the window on the right side of the partition and she is desperately trying to mouth some words to me but I cannot make them out. I try to wipe the tears away but remember that my hands are strapped down so I blink and blink and blink. I open my eyes and the words are clear now.
My mother. "I love you." Over and over.
The executioner. "Roll on one."
My mother is crying, she turns away and walks out of the room unable to watch the death of her only son and I realise that she is not a vision but real, real...
A strange but beautiful serenity washes over me, calmness and acceptance of what is. I am humanity at its barest and truest form; a person completely alone, loved, about to die. I feel calm and strong, ready to face the next challenge be it another place or a land of eternal darkness.
The sun is always there. Sometimes it seems to disappear, at night or hiding behind the clouds, but it is always waiting patiently just around the corner. No matter how lost and corrupt the world becomes, through scandal, war and disease, the sun will always be there, just around the corner, and I think to myself that this is like my mothers love.
I take a final look at Josh Regan, the man who killed an innocent shopkeeper on that fateful day, and I wonder why he is here. I remember how he left me there, unconscious and framed for a murder I did not commit. If he thinks that by witnessing the death of the man he framed that it may redeem his soul in some way, preventing him from burning in the fires of hell, then I hope he is right. I never once mentioned his name, because I knew that if I were in his position I would have done exactly the same. Life is a crazy roulette. The time for blame has long passed. His face is turned down and I cannot see his expression.
A high pitched whirring sound fills the room as the voltage is wound up.
My heart is racing, palms sweating, urine leaking into my diaper.
This is it, the final moment. Twenty eight years, filled with excitement, betrayal, lust and love, coming now to such a sudden end.
I am jerked out of my seat by an overwhelming force and pain and I go leaving no more sound.
...Do I deserve this? Maybe I do, maybe I don't. The only fact that really matters now is that it is happening and I am no longer the captain of my own fate. My death will now be dealt out to me by strangers who do not know or care for me. Maybe it would be best for the world as a whole if my misguided soul was no longer around..….
I shuffle reluctantly through the grey, narrow corridor savouring every last sensation I have left to experience on this Earth - the feel of the cold floor beneath my feet, the lulling sound of human voices, the distant smell of disinfectant and the taste of bitter coffee in my mouth.
The corridor is long and I am escorted by two guards, a grim looking executioner, a priest and an overweight medical doctor.
For once in my brief and shallow life, I exist completely in the here and now, instead of torn between the pain of the past and a desperate yearning for a better future.
I feel like maybe this walk will go on for eternity, and I will become good chums with these people, sharing jolly tales of the past when I was free and innocent; when we were all free and innocent.
But now all is silent and I try to start a conversation with the guard to my left.
"You got any plans tonight buddy, maybe going for a few beers or a pizza? Got a nice missus to get it on with, maybe watch some red movies?" I ask.
He just stares at me blankly and then looks away quickly as pity starts to surface in his eyes so I turn my attention to the executioner.
"Where were you educated? I’m thinking about joining the business; get myself some experience so I can kill someone for real, how many you done? You can teach me the tricks. Come on man, we can be partners!"
I laugh heartily.
He, however, does not seem amused and I am not even graced with a look of pity this time.
My dream of an eternal walk is swiftly crushed as we step across the threshold into the execution chamber and I arrive at the place of my destiny, the chair waiting patiently like a Venus flytrap.
Everything is metallic and grey, all cold hard surfaces and harsh fluorescent light. The air is heavy, my vision blurry with tears.
At the sight of the chamber something inside of me dies leaving a gaping void. Hope flies away like a stray bird and my spirit is drained but somehow I manage to retain the dignity of humour.
"What kind of goddamn cinema is this? Where you guys gonna sit? Hope it’s a comedy, need a good laugh, you guys are sooo dull!" I am almost certain that I catch a slight smirk from the second guard.
They take me to the chair and I am strapped in across the chest, thighs, legs and arms. A leather face mask with eye holes is placed over my head. Two copper electrodes are attached, one to my shaven leg and the other contained within a helmet atop my bald head. Brine soaked water leaks slightly down my cheek. I have already been provided with a diaper which I am wearing underneath my blue overalls.
A memory flashes through my mind.
……..I am ten years old sitting on the small patio in our humble garden with my mother. It is mid summer and the sun is shining gloriously and daffodils are in full bloom. We are drinking ice cool lemonade and eating ripe apples from the small tree at the bottom of our garden near the gate. A butterfly flutters nearby, darting here and there, and in my sensitive way I am thinking about how beautiful everything is, all in its right place. I feel like we are finally getting back to normal after the death of my father to cancer two years ago. The butterfly lands gracefully on the table next to us, maybe taking a rest. The pattern on its wings seem to have meaning as if the insect is trying to convey some mysterious message to us, red, brown and purple, but it seems too beautiful and somehow this moment suddenly feels fake, like a mockery of the true nature of life......I crush the butterfly mercilessly beneath my flexed fist. I am shocked; the butterfly was harmless, just minding his own business and I took its life away for no reason. Knowing that my mother is a great lover of all creatures large and small, holding everything sacred, her reaction to me is no surprise. Initial outrage, sending me to my room where I sit brooding on my sin till tea time when she lets me out briefly, followed by cold disdain. At dinner she is distant, ignoring my vain attempts at conversation. This goes on for a few days and I am beginning to feel totally alone and unloved but as the days go by she welcomes me back into her loving embrace and care and we take a trip to the beach and all is ok again. She says, "You're a bad apple sometimes son but you are my apple and I love you no matter what......
A glass window separates me from a small crowd of people divided by a central partition.
To the left are twelve people, mainly strangers except for the few I recognise from the trial, presumably the family and friends of the victim, here to see that justice is finally done. Their heads are bowed and they seem solemn. A young woman dressed in black, sitting with a small blond girl, is crying and I recognise them from the trial as the wife and child of the victim.
To the right, as grim and final proof that I have sowed much hate in the world but little love, sit only three people - Aunty Joyce who is my mother’s sister, an old friend, Josh Regan, and my attorney, Frederick Fernandez, all unable to meet my gaze. My mother’s absence pierces my heart like no blade could. During my two years on death row, I sent her many letters, pleading for her to come and visit me; however, presumably immersed in shame, I received no reply.
Her absence here today symbolises that love is conditional. Although she could still find it in her heart to love me after small offences such as the merciless destruction of a butterfly, the killing of an innocent man in a botched armed robbery is unforgivable.
The priest reads me my last rites and although I have never been a religious man I take great comfort from the requests for forgiveness and the promises of an afterlife. I believe that if I was given another chance at this life I would become a devoted monk, staking my whole life on the possibility of a caring God, praying all day and night.....maybe this belief would have led me away from the path of misguided adventure.
"May God have mercy on your soul."
In my unrelenting way that has been with me always, I try to think of a witty reply to this comment but words have finally failed me.
"Do you have any last words at this time?”
As if I have stepped outside of my own restrained body, I hear myself screaming, "I thought you loved apples. I want to be a good apple," and then something bizarre, which made all heads bow even further, "I’m sorry I killed that butterfly. It was just a poor little butterfly minding its own business, so peaceful. I want to see the sun one more time, let me see the sun."
In the murky depths of my functioning mind, I realize that I am now completely delirious.
My eyes are blurred by tears, but as they begin to clear I see a vision which swiftly clears my mind. The stray bird of hope returns to its nest as I see my mother. She stands at the window on the right side of the partition and she is desperately trying to mouth some words to me but I cannot make them out. I try to wipe the tears away but remember that my hands are strapped down so I blink and blink and blink. I open my eyes and the words are clear now.
My mother. "I love you." Over and over.
The executioner. "Roll on one."
My mother is crying, she turns away and walks out of the room unable to watch the death of her only son and I realise that she is not a vision but real, real...
A strange but beautiful serenity washes over me, calmness and acceptance of what is. I am humanity at its barest and truest form; a person completely alone, loved, about to die. I feel calm and strong, ready to face the next challenge be it another place or a land of eternal darkness.
The sun is always there. Sometimes it seems to disappear, at night or hiding behind the clouds, but it is always waiting patiently just around the corner. No matter how lost and corrupt the world becomes, through scandal, war and disease, the sun will always be there, just around the corner, and I think to myself that this is like my mothers love.
I take a final look at Josh Regan, the man who killed an innocent shopkeeper on that fateful day, and I wonder why he is here. I remember how he left me there, unconscious and framed for a murder I did not commit. If he thinks that by witnessing the death of the man he framed that it may redeem his soul in some way, preventing him from burning in the fires of hell, then I hope he is right. I never once mentioned his name, because I knew that if I were in his position I would have done exactly the same. Life is a crazy roulette. The time for blame has long passed. His face is turned down and I cannot see his expression.
A high pitched whirring sound fills the room as the voltage is wound up.
My heart is racing, palms sweating, urine leaking into my diaper.
This is it, the final moment. Twenty eight years, filled with excitement, betrayal, lust and love, coming now to such a sudden end.
I am jerked out of my seat by an overwhelming force and pain and I go leaving no more sound.