The October Music: Fourth Verse - Day 10

Electric

The clock strikes twelve and the clicking of the guards’ boots echoes in the silent hall. At the end of the hall, in the lonely cell, he waits. There will be no reprieve, no last-minute intervention. Not for him. Not for what he did. Were he capable of self-reflection, remorse may have overcome him, but he has none. He merely sits on the bed and stares blankly at the wall. 

The door creaks open and a quiet, stern voice tells him that it is time to go. He nods, stands, and walks to have his shackles placed on him. The priest, a nervous young man, attempts to comfort him. A glare of resentment forces the platitudes to die in the priest’s throat. The man smirks. One last spirit broken.

The hallway is noiseless, save the sound of their walking, yet on both sides, eyes peer from between steel bars. Some eyes hold fear. Some anger. Some relief that it is not them. Yet. The man ignores them all. They meant nothing to him before now and they certainly mean nothing now.

At the end of the hallway, a thick metal door creaks open, tearing a ragged hole through the reverent silence. Inside, the man sees his future awaiting him. Finally, he thinks. He is gently guided inside and the door slams shut behind them. The CHUNK of the lock engages and the man smirks again. As if he would try to escape now, now when he is so close to the finish line. 

The shackles are removed and he stretches his arms and legs one final time. The muscles ache just a little, but he ignores that. He sits on the heavy oaken chair and places his arms on the armrests. Thick leather straps are placed around his arms and legs and tightened. He is not asked if they are too tight. It does not matter either way.

The priest tries again to comfort the man, to no avail. The man is resolute. He has no expression on his face as the sponge is dunked in water and placed on his head. He feels little rivulets running down his face and cheeks. The metal bowl on top of the sponge feels weightless, though the strap pulled tight under his chin adds pressure. 

He is asked for any final words of reflection, remorse, comfort for the families he tore apart. Anything at all. Even a prayer. Instead, he snorts and spits on the floor. He hears a sigh from those in the room hoping for any sort of redemption for him. It will not come. 

The belt is placed in his mouth, old leather tasting of thousands before him, to ensure a minimum of unpleasantness for everyone else. A few words by those in the room and then the creaking click of the switch. Thousands of volts of crackling electric pain surge through the man’s veins and his body convulses.

Throughout, his eyes remain steadfast.
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Empty in life. Empty in death.