Saturday, February 13, 2010

Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial/The Needle

The smell of rare steak lingered. It had been a good choice. I’ve always loved steak. Only one meal ever tasted better, and they weren’t about to give me that . Shame I’d kept the leftovers. But it seemed like such a waste. Of course if I hadn’t, would I even be here---waiting, the minutes of my life winding down.

The fava beans had been meant as a joke; fava beans and fine chianti. But the drones at the DOC have no sense of humor, so the beans were served as part of my last meal. Tasted like crap too. No chianti though. It might interfere with the drugs.

If there had been anyone I could have said my goodbyes last night. They have a special room for it. But there’s no one. No one will cry for me. Not even pretty Kerry, who came to me wanting protection in here. So pretty. So incredibly stupid. In here for identity theft and bad checks. Too stupid to not get caught. No doubt someone took him up on his offer. Not me. I don’t swing that way. Not even in here. And if I did, I’d want someone with a brain. There is more to life than sex.

What was that song? The one from Evita . . . I start to sing it, but I only know about a line and a half. Still, it startles the guard enough that he drops the keys. He’s pale, shaking. The new guy, saddled with death duty as part of his training. Guess he didn’t expect to find the condemned singing show tunes. I switch to humming the theme to Cabaret as he fastens the shackles on my ankles, his partner watching warily from out of reach, weapons at the ready. He’s so afraid. They both are. I can smell it on them, even over the heavy scent of Brut aftershave that new guy must’ve bathed in this morning. So afraid. It’s a turn on. But there’s no time for that. No more time for anything.

Cold metal bracelets fasten onto my wrists and I rise. There’s a trick to walking shackled. It requires kind of a shuffling gait because of the short length of the chain. We shuffle down the hall with me humming and the guards looking serious and smelling spooked. Part of me is tempted to turn around suddenly, go “BOO” just to see what they’d do. Probably piss their pants. Maybe shoot me. Would they save me in the infirmary so that they could put me properly to death? I give a snort of laughter.

“What’s so damned funny?” The new guy growls.

“Leave him alone Smitty. Don’t think about it.”

“I wanna know.” His jaw juts forward aggressively, and he glares at me down more than six inches of height difference between us. I just look up at him and smile. The face that had been flushed seconds before pales, and he takes an involuntary half-step back.

I’m shackled, walking toward the chair where the doc will end my life and he’s the one afraid. Ironic. Not that this moron would have a clue what that even means. Where do they find these idiots? Of course, it’s not like this is the kind of job people line up for.
We arrive, and they open the door with a little shuffling around. I make my way over to the chair, taking my seat like a good little boy. I snort again. If I was a good boy I wouldn’t be here. No, I’m definitely no boy scout.

I look through the window as they strap me in. Quite a crowd in the viewing room. Most of them look grim. The priest looks nauseous. I scan the faces looking for . . . ah, there they are. His parents. Pale, rigid and self-righteous as ever. She’s fingering the little gold cross at her neck. She’s lost weight, gone all stringy. I can see the pulse pounding in her throat at the same time as I see the reflection of the doctor moving in with the syringe in the glass.

Her eyes lock with mine, and a shudder runs through her body. She starts shaking. Sobbing, she buries her head against her husband’s strong shoulder.

He glares at me, rage burning white hot in his eyes. He wants me to burn, burn in his God’s hell. And maybe I will. Maybe I’ll burn, but if I do, I’ll be standing right next to his son.

Latex covered fingers grab my arm, I feel the stick of the needle, then a sensation that is both cold and burning as the plunger pushes the poison into my vein. Will I see him in hell? Or will everything . . .

just . . .



lexcade said...

very nice. i take it this is the result of your dream from the other night?

i really like the progression of this. it's quick and to the point (no pun intended, of course), but throughout, i was trying to decide if i liked him or not. the tone of it convinced me i actually did. i like dark humor/sarcasm.

Tammy said...

Have to agree with lexcade, I liked it too.

In my opinion, it would make a good start of a book - dark, urban fantasy maybe - it might even work as a memory of the hero, what he relives every so often.

Dolly said...

The detail was amazing. Liked the progression too. Thanks for sharing again.