12 August 2012 fiction, "The Prisoner"

The prisoner sat in his cell, alone. He knew what was coming. He had known for a long while now. So why he was feeling so scared was a mystery to him. He had no idea what he was supposed to be feeling, being in a position so serious as his own, but definitely not what he was feeling at the moment. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. This was the last time he was going to be here, alone, dependent. In an hour and a half, he was going to be led out to take his last breaths. It was time for him to die.

It hadn’t always been this way. Or had it? The prisoner couldn’t remember. He was unable to conjure up any time other than the present, personal, hell he was enduring. He had already been through the trial, had already endured the twenty months of prison before his final trial that he had been so afraid of facing. All that was left was the easy part. Dying. How hard could it be? Something so easy to think about. Death. It happened all the time. The prisoner had been faced with death and dying every day of his own life. His dog had died when he was six. His grandfather had died when he was twelve. And his own daughter had died when she was only weeks old. SIDS, that’s what they had called it. How would she see him if she were here now? How would she have reacted to this situation, had she lived long enough to face it? He didn’t know. And he probably never would know. He was going to hell as soon as the venomous substance passed through his bloodstream, he just knew it. While he was there, he knew his beautiful baby, his daughter, the only thing he had loved more that he had loved himself would be in heaven. Innocence at its greatest, that’s what she had been.

He really wasn’t a bad guy. What had happened, the events leading up to his prison stay, they were all things that had happened in the blink of an eye. They had been rash decisions, things he had never meant to do. He had never intended to harm anyone. But what good were any intentions now? It had been said before that the road to hell was paved with good intentions. The road to hell. Well that was where he was headed now.

The prisoner closed his eyes, fell back onto his bed. If the slab of cement covered by a flimsy piece of a filthy mattress could be called a bed. He missed his wife. He really, really missed her. She had been the only one who had loved him, throughout it all. She had been there throughout everything. And now he was never going to see her again. As the prisoner thought about her more and more, tears began to force themselves out of his tightly closed eyes. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about her until now. He knew that if he thought about her, even the tiniest little detail about her, he would break down. But what did that matter now, now that he was less than two hours away from his own death? Was he allowing himself to think things were over now, now that things really could be called over for him?

Yes. Yes, things were over. So now it was the time to mourn. The time to repent, if he felt he had a chance with God. Which he didn’t. So now was the time to mourn. The prisoner curled into the fetal position, turned so his face was pointed towards the wall, and silently let the tears stream down his face. They came more quickly than he anticipated, and though he tried his hardest to quiet all sounds, a choked sob managed its way out of his throat. He would never, ever see her again. he would never see his wife laugh again, never see his baby grow up, never watch the flowers bloom, the leaves fall, the first snow of each winter.  All of these things only made him feel worse. He wasn’t ready to die, not really. Was this how it was supposed to be? He had heard from the other prisoners that before one died they entered a sort of trance-like state. They were thinking deeply about their priorities, and repentance was the most common thing on everyone’s minds. But this prisoner felt noting of the sort. All he felt was misery. A misery with no relief.

Somewhere amongst his woe-filled last hours, the guard arrived at the prisoner’s cell. He snuck up so quietly that the prisoner jumped nearly four feet off of his bed when the guard performed his three signature short raps on the bars.

“Mr. Comson.” The guard said sharply.

The prisoner quickly wiped the tears off of his face, and took a deep breath. “Yes?” he asked. He wondered what the guard could possibly be here for. The execution wasn’t scheduled for another twenty minutes, and no guard would be cruel enough to punish a doomed prisoner in his last minutes.

When the guard didn’t answer, Comson realized that he would have to turn around to face him. He wiped his face, composed himself, and sat up, throwing his feet onto the floor. “Yes?”he tried to say as calmly as possible.

“Come with me.” the guard unlocked Comson’s cell, and turned around, motioning for Comson to follow him.

Comson felt his stomach drop. Was it time already? He hadn’t even had time to venture into the deep cavern that defined the guilt he had tried so hard to push under the surface. He gulped, and stepped forward. He exited the cell. The guard handcuffed him, and turned to lock the cell behind him. He walked forward, expecting Comson to follow him without question. And Comson did so. He had never been a difficult prisoner. And even if he had been, now would not be the time to try to run. There was nothing more watched than a doomed prisoner about to experience the death penalty. Not only were the guards watching him, but all of the other prisoners had fallen silent as well. They watched his every step, waiting.

The guard came to an interrogation room, and unlocked it. He entered, and flicked the lights on. Comson entered behind him, and the guard motioned for him to sit on one of the hard metal chairs placed around the small metal table. The place reminded Comson of an operating room.

Comson sat at the chair with his handcuffed hands behind his back, too confused to feel anything. He thought he had had more time. But maybe he did, since he wasn’t lying on a table with a needle being placed in his harm so the poison would have an easy entrance to his bloodstream.

The guard came and sat at the table opposite Comson. Comson stared at the table.

“Mr. Comson, as you know, you were scheduled for a poison injection in about –the guard checked his watch- fifteen minutes. But as of about –pause to check his watch again- forty minutes ago, your bail was paid.” The guard paused to let the news sink in.

Comson slowly looked up, with only the words “poison injection” “fifteen minutes” and “bail” racing through his mind, in no particular order.

Suddenly the words formed a sentence, and the sentence gave way to an entire new train of thought. “Why?” was the only word that managed its way out of his mouth. With all of the thoughts suddenly racing through his mind, it was surprising that Comson was able to focus on one long enough compose a question.

The guard shook his head. “I don’t know Mr. Comson. The only thing I know is that your bail is paid, which means that your poison injection is cancelled.”

Suddenly, Comson felt so lightheaded he rested his head on the table, hoping for something to remind him that something in the room was still solid on the ground. Did this mean what he thought? That not only was his death cancelled for the day, but that his death was cancelled? Did this mean that he was still allowed to live?

“Now Mr. Comson I know how you must be feeling. This is all coming as a shock to you, I’m sure. When you’re ready, you can ask me any questions you like, then you’re free to go.”

Comson raised his head at the words. Free to go. Did that really mean he was going to be out of the prison, out of the thing he had been fearing for days, just like that?

“Who.” He choked out.

The guard smiled. “You don’t take long to recover, do you? If you will excuse me, I’ll go get the man himself.”

The guard got up and made his way over to a door behind his chair that the prisoner hadn’t noticed before. He opened it, exited, and let the door slam shut, creating an echo that seemed to ring longer than normal in the silence of the interrogation room. Comson let out a breath and stared at the table. There was a small smudge about two centimeters from the center. Comson stared at it. The handcuffs were restraining him from leaning forward and wiping it off. He averted his gaze, used to being held back by the handcuffs before turning back and realizing that soon he would no longer be restricted. He would be free to go.

Freedom. What did that really mean? He knew the literal meaning. That soon he would be released from the suffocating bars of the jail. But, then what? What came next? He had nowhere to go. Up until a small time ago he had thought he was going to die. Planning where he was going to live after prison had never even entered his mind. He had no money. Where would he have hidden it, had he actually had anything upon entering the prison?

Suddenly, the term Halfway House entered his mind. He had heard a little about them. Supposedly they were houses where ex-cons went so they could be eased back into regular society. Yes, that must be where he was going to go.