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Just a cheerful little something I wrote:
“Is it time?”
The man in uniform nods. He leans casually on the door as he watches me gather my things, seemingly unaware of time, his head rolling back and forth in agreement, like an exhausted wave.
“I won't be long.”
Again he nods, but lazily. I imagine him losing whole days to this apathy, and the thought angers me. These past weeks I have clung hopelessly to time, dividing it into ever smaller portions to prolong my days. I move about the cell, placing my belongings into a small bag. I do this slowly and with great thought. I know that if I lose concentration time will slip unnoticed through my hands, and I have little enough to waste.
“So, you are to be the one who hangs me?”
He doesn't answer at first, and I continue with my task. In these few short moments I have packed the dull necessities of my life: clothes, a razor, a toothbrush, a cigarette lighter. I untack some fading photos from the wall; photos that I haven't looked at in a year, of places and people I barely recognise. I remove several letters from my desk. I have been writing and revising these letters since I first arrived: one to my family, one to friends, another to the girl I once loved. I have high hopes of them; but at the same time they disgust me. I imagine the letters opened, wept over, as catalysts of remorse; but simultaneously I see them unread, ripped up or sneered at.
“You are to be my executioner?” I ask again.
The question ends his reverie. He nods, smartly this time, and even gives me a regretful smile. It is the first time I have looked at the man properly; with a shock I realise that my executioner is to be the same man who has worked as my gaoler all these years. He treated me kindly enough: the meals were warm, and I had plenty to smoke and drink. But we had barely spoken during my captivity. We made each other uncomfortable, I suppose: the man condemned to death and the man condemned to keep him alive. I embodied the pointlessness of his life, and he embodied the pointlessness of mine. It was easier for each to ignore the other.
“You?”
Again he nods, and then gestures towards the expectant corridor. As I leave the cell the executioner pulls the door shut and locks it behind me.
“And so I can no longer escape to captivity.”
There is no response. As we walk the corridor I stare hard at the executioner, hoping that time will slow as I attempt this dissection. Suddenly a memory comes to me; a memory that explains the awkwardness that existed between the executioner and myself during my captivity. It is the final scene from my trial: the verdict has been given, the sentence passed. I am being led away, and I look one more time towards my lawyer, who shrugs. The faces of the two men are the same. The lawyer became my gaoler, who became my executioner.
The corridor ends, for us at least, and we enter a small room, tiled white and inescapably bright. A noose hangs in the centre of the room, a mechanism stands below it. The executioner moves to adjust this machinery, and I am left to stand with my thoughts. More memories of my trial flood back: the foreman of the jury passing his verdict, my lawyer shaking his head, the judge handing down the sentence. And a parade of faces - judge, juror, lawyer, gaoler, executioner – each one the same as the last. Not five men deciding my fate but one.
A sink stands against the far wall and I stagger towards it, staring into the mirror above. And there it is: the familiar jawline, the unbelieving eyes, the same untidy stubble. It had been me all along. I had defended myself. I had decided on my own guilt. I had passed my own sentence of death. I had kept myself imprisoned. And now I am to carry out my own execution.
“Is it time?”
The man in uniform nods. He leans casually on the door as he watches me gather my things, seemingly unaware of time, his head rolling back and forth in agreement, like an exhausted wave.
“I won't be long.”
Again he nods, but lazily. I imagine him losing whole days to this apathy, and the thought angers me. These past weeks I have clung hopelessly to time, dividing it into ever smaller portions to prolong my days. I move about the cell, placing my belongings into a small bag. I do this slowly and with great thought. I know that if I lose concentration time will slip unnoticed through my hands, and I have little enough to waste.
“So, you are to be the one who hangs me?”
He doesn't answer at first, and I continue with my task. In these few short moments I have packed the dull necessities of my life: clothes, a razor, a toothbrush, a cigarette lighter. I untack some fading photos from the wall; photos that I haven't looked at in a year, of places and people I barely recognise. I remove several letters from my desk. I have been writing and revising these letters since I first arrived: one to my family, one to friends, another to the girl I once loved. I have high hopes of them; but at the same time they disgust me. I imagine the letters opened, wept over, as catalysts of remorse; but simultaneously I see them unread, ripped up or sneered at.
“You are to be my executioner?” I ask again.
The question ends his reverie. He nods, smartly this time, and even gives me a regretful smile. It is the first time I have looked at the man properly; with a shock I realise that my executioner is to be the same man who has worked as my gaoler all these years. He treated me kindly enough: the meals were warm, and I had plenty to smoke and drink. But we had barely spoken during my captivity. We made each other uncomfortable, I suppose: the man condemned to death and the man condemned to keep him alive. I embodied the pointlessness of his life, and he embodied the pointlessness of mine. It was easier for each to ignore the other.
“You?”
Again he nods, and then gestures towards the expectant corridor. As I leave the cell the executioner pulls the door shut and locks it behind me.
“And so I can no longer escape to captivity.”
There is no response. As we walk the corridor I stare hard at the executioner, hoping that time will slow as I attempt this dissection. Suddenly a memory comes to me; a memory that explains the awkwardness that existed between the executioner and myself during my captivity. It is the final scene from my trial: the verdict has been given, the sentence passed. I am being led away, and I look one more time towards my lawyer, who shrugs. The faces of the two men are the same. The lawyer became my gaoler, who became my executioner.
The corridor ends, for us at least, and we enter a small room, tiled white and inescapably bright. A noose hangs in the centre of the room, a mechanism stands below it. The executioner moves to adjust this machinery, and I am left to stand with my thoughts. More memories of my trial flood back: the foreman of the jury passing his verdict, my lawyer shaking his head, the judge handing down the sentence. And a parade of faces - judge, juror, lawyer, gaoler, executioner – each one the same as the last. Not five men deciding my fate but one.
A sink stands against the far wall and I stagger towards it, staring into the mirror above. And there it is: the familiar jawline, the unbelieving eyes, the same untidy stubble. It had been me all along. I had defended myself. I had decided on my own guilt. I had passed my own sentence of death. I had kept myself imprisoned. And now I am to carry out my own execution.
You're all wrong: it's the closing pages of Gary Bushell's autobiography.
Shaneo!
He obivously escaped if he got out to write this story. Duh!
What did you do?
Good one.
Is this another story with some hidden message i dont understand?? Who had been me all along?
Very good. So who was it?
Just kidding.
Just kidding.
Just a cheerful little something I wrote:
“Is it time?”
The man in uniform nods. He leans casually on the door as he watches me gather my things, seemingly unaware of time, his head rolling back and forth in agreement, like an exhausted wave.
“I won't be long.”
Again he nods, but lazily. I imagine him losing whole days to this apathy, and the thought angers me. These past weeks I have clung hopelessly to time, dividing it into ever smaller portions to prolong my days. I move about the cell, placing my belongings into a small bag. I do this slowly and with great thought. I know that if I lose concentration time will slip unnoticed through my hands, and I have little enough to waste.
“So, you are to be the one who hangs me?”
He doesn't answer at first, and I continue with my task. In these few short moments I have packed the dull necessities of my life: clothes, a razor, a toothbrush, a cigarette lighter. I untack some fading photos from the wall; photos that I haven't looked at in a year, of places and people I barely recognise. I remove several letters from my desk. I have been writing and revising these letters since I first arrived: one to my family, one to friends, another to the girl I once loved. I have high hopes of them; but at the same time they disgust me. I imagine the letters opened, wept over, as catalysts of remorse; but simultaneously I see them unread, ripped up or sneered at.
“You are to be my executioner?” I ask again.
The question ends his reverie. He nods, smartly this time, and even gives me a regretful smile. It is the first time I have looked at the man properly; with a shock I realise that my executioner is to be the same man who has worked as my gaoler all these years. He treated me kindly enough: the meals were warm, and I had plenty to smoke and drink. But we had barely spoken during my captivity. We made each other uncomfortable, I suppose: the man condemned to death and the man condemned to keep him alive. I embodied the pointlessness of his life, and he embodied the pointlessness of mine. It was easier for each to ignore the other.
“You?”
Again he nods, and then gestures towards the expectant corridor. As I leave the cell the executioner pulls the door shut and locks it behind me.
“And so I can no longer escape to captivity.”
There is no response. As we walk the corridor I stare hard at the executioner, hoping that time will slow as I attempt this dissection. Suddenly a memory comes to me; a memory that explains the awkwardness that existed between the executioner and myself during my captivity. It is the final scene from my trial: the verdict has been given, the sentence passed. I am being led away, and I look one more time towards my lawyer, who shrugs. The faces of the two men are the same. The lawyer became my gaoler, who became my executioner.
The corridor ends, for us at least, and we enter a small room, tiled white and inescapably bright. A noose hangs in the centre of the room, a mechanism stands below it. The executioner moves to adjust this machinery, and I am left to stand with my thoughts. More memories of my trial flood back: the foreman of the jury passing his verdict, my lawyer shaking his head, the judge handing down the sentence. And a parade of faces - judge, juror, lawyer, gaoler, executioner – each one the same as the last. Not five men deciding my fate but one.
A sink stands against the far wall and I stagger towards it, staring into the mirror above. And there it is: the familiar jawline, the unbelieving eyes, the same untidy stubble. It had been me all along. I had defended myself. I had decided on my own guilt. I had passed my own sentence of death. I had kept myself imprisoned. And now I am to carry out my own execution.
“Is it time?”
The man in uniform nods. He leans casually on the door as he watches me gather my things, seemingly unaware of time, his head rolling back and forth in agreement, like an exhausted wave.
“I won't be long.”
Again he nods, but lazily. I imagine him losing whole days to this apathy, and the thought angers me. These past weeks I have clung hopelessly to time, dividing it into ever smaller portions to prolong my days. I move about the cell, placing my belongings into a small bag. I do this slowly and with great thought. I know that if I lose concentration time will slip unnoticed through my hands, and I have little enough to waste.
“So, you are to be the one who hangs me?”
He doesn't answer at first, and I continue with my task. In these few short moments I have packed the dull necessities of my life: clothes, a razor, a toothbrush, a cigarette lighter. I untack some fading photos from the wall; photos that I haven't looked at in a year, of places and people I barely recognise. I remove several letters from my desk. I have been writing and revising these letters since I first arrived: one to my family, one to friends, another to the girl I once loved. I have high hopes of them; but at the same time they disgust me. I imagine the letters opened, wept over, as catalysts of remorse; but simultaneously I see them unread, ripped up or sneered at.
“You are to be my executioner?” I ask again.
The question ends his reverie. He nods, smartly this time, and even gives me a regretful smile. It is the first time I have looked at the man properly; with a shock I realise that my executioner is to be the same man who has worked as my gaoler all these years. He treated me kindly enough: the meals were warm, and I had plenty to smoke and drink. But we had barely spoken during my captivity. We made each other uncomfortable, I suppose: the man condemned to death and the man condemned to keep him alive. I embodied the pointlessness of his life, and he embodied the pointlessness of mine. It was easier for each to ignore the other.
“You?”
Again he nods, and then gestures towards the expectant corridor. As I leave the cell the executioner pulls the door shut and locks it behind me.
“And so I can no longer escape to captivity.”
There is no response. As we walk the corridor I stare hard at the executioner, hoping that time will slow as I attempt this dissection. Suddenly a memory comes to me; a memory that explains the awkwardness that existed between the executioner and myself during my captivity. It is the final scene from my trial: the verdict has been given, the sentence passed. I am being led away, and I look one more time towards my lawyer, who shrugs. The faces of the two men are the same. The lawyer became my gaoler, who became my executioner.
The corridor ends, for us at least, and we enter a small room, tiled white and inescapably bright. A noose hangs in the centre of the room, a mechanism stands below it. The executioner moves to adjust this machinery, and I am left to stand with my thoughts. More memories of my trial flood back: the foreman of the jury passing his verdict, my lawyer shaking his head, the judge handing down the sentence. And a parade of faces - judge, juror, lawyer, gaoler, executioner – each one the same as the last. Not five men deciding my fate but one.
A sink stands against the far wall and I stagger towards it, staring into the mirror above. And there it is: the familiar jawline, the unbelieving eyes, the same untidy stubble. It had been me all along. I had defended myself. I had decided on my own guilt. I had passed my own sentence of death. I had kept myself imprisoned. And now I am to carry out my own execution.