No Last Words

A Story by S.V

What does someone facing capital punishment feel, see, think right before they go? Does life offer a conclusion, is one really needed?

The tangled twigs and fingers of the linden trees lined in rows outside project their silhouettes onto the back of the room: a vibrant stained-glass window ornating the back wall, which can now finally stop sighing in its boredom and deep white. In front of this moving backdrop, the audience sits. The rows of chairs spread out in a semi-circle, overlooking the bare wooden planks shooting out across the floor to the platform, where the man now sits. He can hear the drapes beat out a muffled beat, just a few meters behind him, where the guard stand, looking out over the filled hall. No spring day could have been more beautiful, and he lets the fantasy of feeling a sheet of sunlight wash over him and fill him with energy and motion permeate his mind.

The rhythmical flow of sighs, grunts and melodious exhalations continues its course across the room. He realizes he cannot force himself into awareness, or an attempt to divide the endless rumble into distinct forms and intelligent wholes. He lets the words travel over his head and imagines them rolling out of the window, unmoved by his disinterest.

He thinks it seems as if this is the first time he has sat like this, the first time he has glimpsed the sunlight running over the edge of the window and falling slightly minute by minute.

“…do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Still not moved.

He glances away, thinking this is what has damaged his sight, he must remember not to stare at bright light, but what difference would it make at this point anyway? Purple circles float out of his corneas, onto the center of everything he focuses his eyes on. What is the time?

Ten till. Time’s running slow.

The leaves of the tree swing with the branches to an unknown rhythm. Leaves blue and grey with pulsating orange ribs and veins pushing through to the tips. Mom used to hold the aspens at the end of the book, flat brittle things taped to the page that, when bent or folded, crushed them into a thousand flakes. There were oak ones too. And mountain flowers.

In the mountains, at the cabin, where we once spent that dark Christmas, with the tree lit up in the corner and only the candles looking at our yellow faces, that was where we really knew gratefulness and peace. The house sat on the slope, it’s face looking out over the valley. Uncle V would take the step-ladder down under the floor to the rock below the foundation. A ring of rock grew out of the center, and a meters-deep well pushed into the mountain. It took 8 years, Mom told me once, of drilling and shoveling for Uncle to get to the water. “there will be a well” he said the first day, and 8 anniversaries onwards there was a well. My beard is a bit like his was back then.

That’s probably what the people out that window are dreaming of now, beards and curling hair. For him it’s too late, no point thinking about the thoughts of the living. Strange, how he needs to remind himself of that.

The drone keeps on, formal formal formal droning, endless and…what purpose does it even serve?

None of them sit here now, the people he thinks of. Only his brother in a corner, strangely distant, and the others.

They just spoke, not about anything really interesting or worth pondering, just the acknowledgement of what is happening.

The woman with the yellow hair faces me, her eyes reassuring and kind. It is only us in the room.

What is happening?

The audience faces left, then right, heads angling to different sides, white and daft. People sitting with faces more similar to the floor than the living, shaking aspens outside. Heads of red, black, orange, wood and cloud, and a yellow one in the corner. Noses flat and sharp, and lips curled and thick.

Time’s up

“Glass wall”

“No”

The stage gets up, gowns and uniforms.

The uniforms get my arms and cross them

Metal clings

Heart’s fast

Ribs beating against the skin as they pull me back. Suck me into a trap.

It’s a thick glass cage, blue light reflected in, over and around. Doors slide into place, the click, and deafness comes. Sterile and cold, like my reflection, as a ghost behind which the faces drift in and take their places. Faces that have come over for the show. Blue and grey, like the leaves outside.

New, raspy straps get pulled up around my wrists, the old ones come off. The chair isn’t too hard, I can lounge back. Tick tick tick, time’s up.

My nose wheezes, there’s shuffling and tray smacking. Jones comes over and half smiles, I like the guy.

Glistening water streaks, trails from my brother’s eyes, he nods and closes them, eyes of ice.

Four eyes, peeking over and checking the scene out, leaning back again

Jones leans closer

Pinch

Deafness

-The woman and I lock eyes, we both sigh. Leaning in the corner, with her dark lipstick and yellow hair, we say bye- Is this it? No conclusion?

No last words?

Then the dark.