Self Caused
1/1
The jury deliberated only two hours before announcing the ‘Guilty’ verdict. But I wasn’t surprised, I did it, after all.
When the Judge sentenced me to death instead of life imprisonment, my mother cried out. She had to be restrained and then removed by my two uncles, but I kept my face set like stone, revealing little in the way of emotion.
My short stint here has been harder; I’ve been on lockdown 23 hours a day. I got into a fight with my cellmate within my first few hours, sending him to a three day stay in the infirmary. I was moved immediately to the cell I now occupy: a 5x8 room with barely enough room for a cot and latrine. The peach colored walls are probably meant to be calming, but they are driving me mad, closing in on all directions, rage building within me like a caged predator. I am mindlessly pacing when they come for me.
“Big day today, King.”
“I’ll bet. Don’t forget the popcorn, sure it’ll be a show.”
“You’re on the exciting end, boy. You ant a priest?”
“Won’t do me no good. I’m damned regardless.”
“Last meal?”
“Wouldn’t do anything but prolong the inevitable.”
“Suit yourself, the warden should be down soon.”
My insides are already in knots. There’s no way I’d be able to keep anything down, and I’d rather not march down death row with a sour stomach. The guard, McNally, turns to leave and I resume my pacing. I don’t get three rounds around the tiny space before a man walks up with a book in his hands, stopping directly in front of my cell.
“Ryker King?”
“Yessir.”
“I’m Father Harris.” His black shirt holds a Roman Collar, and his hands hold a worn leather Bible.
“You can’t save me now.” I grumble, irritated at McNally for not listening to my order.
“God can, son. Would you like to confess your sins?”
“My sins were confessed in court for all to see. No point in beating dead horses.”
“Would you rather I pray over you?”
“Don’t waste your breath or my time, Father. Everything good within me died with the girl. If you really want to help, call the warden down.”
“God bless you, son. I’ll pray you find peace beyond.”
I shake my head, beyond irritated now, as the aging Father retreats down the hallway. I lean my head against the bars, trying to channel my anger into something other than murderous rage. But then, I’ve never been very good at that.
Finally the warden decides to emerge from his office, a fat man in blue uniform, practically waddling down the hall. I am absolutely disgusted at the sight of him, and sneer involuntarily. He obviously isn’t subjected to the same menu we are. He has a guard on either side of him, Castor to the right, Johnson on the left. Johnson steps up and unlocks my cell door, sliding it to the right, as Castor readies the shackles. I let him enter without fuss, not moving an inch as he binds my wrists and ankles in heavy steel. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me beg and grovel, I hold my head high.
The walk down the hall is a short one, but moves in slow motion, like a car accident you see coming but can’t avoid. The men caged on either side of me yell and jeer, but I say nothing. It will be their time soon enough.
The execution room is hardly larger than my cell, a leather gurney-chair with straps and shackles in the center, a stainless surgeon’s tray next to it containing several empty syringes and an IV bag. The far wall is covered in a one way mirror, and I know a crowd is gathered within, able to witness my demise while I see only my own reflection.
I wonder if my mother is there, brought in to see me take my last breath as she was there to see my first. I hope not. No doubt Casey’s mother is there. Probably with a smile on her face. I’m not sure I blame her.
I lay on the reclined chair, letting Castor hook my shackles to the chair as well as buckle me into the thick leather straps. My heart begins to quicken, knowing the time is growing near, made obvious to the room by the heart rate monitor a nurse hooks up. Her name tag says ‘Cynthia,’ but I try not to look her in the face. It is obvious she is uncomfortable here. Father Harris is in a far corner, waiting patiently for me to beg for my eternal soul, but I am determined to keep him waiting until the last breath leaves my body. I owe nothing to God, and He has given me nothing but pain. The coroner, already filling out my death certificate, stands next to him.
A man in a while lab coat and no name tag shuffles in, vials in hand. He moves to the steel tray, drawing the liquid from each vial into a syringe. Cynthia comes up to my tightly bound arm and begins poking for a vein.
“Just follow the tracks, sweetheart.” Her face colors.
I barely feel the sting as the needle hits home, and she tapes it securely in place, raising the IV bag and hooking it onto the stand. A clear liquid begins to drip, though I have no idea what it is. I guess it doesn't matter much, anyway.
“Any last words, Ryker?” The warden asks.
“No, sir.”
“You sure?”
I nod and glare into the halogen light shining above me. Let’s just get it over with, already.
“Time start, 10: 52 am.” The doctor states, and Cynthia scribbles on a paper. He inserts the first syringe into the clear cord of the IV drip, pushing the plunger without hesitation. “Sodium Thiopental injected.”
Within seconds my vision blurs, then blinks out. I know my eyes are staring wide, still trained on the light above me, though I see nothing else.
A short moment passes, and I hear the doctor again. “10:53, Pancuronium applied.”
My skin begins to burn at my arm, and I try to swipe at it with my left hand, but I am held fast by the restraints. The burning does not subside, instead races up my arm to envelop my chest, abdomen, and legs. I turn my head to look upon myself, and I can see again, a great fire burning upon my skin, leaving welts and blisters. My breath comes fast and I know I am beginning to panic.
No, this can't be right. I’m not ready for this. Stop! I shout within my head, but the words will not come out of my mouth, or have fallen on deaf ears. The burning continues, and I catch movement in my peripheral vision, turning the attention away from my now melting skin. A superbly dressed man in a black suit is standing in front of me, ebony hair slicked back and a wicked smile on his face.
“Ryker King,” he hisses nastily, “Do you know where you are?”
Hell, I assume, and I tell him so.
“Correct.”
“How long will I have to stay?”
“You are here to learn from your mistakess. Beyond that, the choice to stay or go is upon you.”
“I don’t understand...” I begin, but I’m hit with a wave of emotion so hard I nearly topple over. I am immediately gripped in a burning hate.
I’m standing in my old kitchen again, screaming at Casey for the umpteenth time. I’m not even sure what I’m yelling about anymore, but she huddles on the floor, cowering, a bruise beginning to mark her pretty face.
I’m standing in an empty street, pavement shiny with fresh rain, taking a crowbar to the window of a Mercedes Benz and jacking anything of value from within. I hit 37 cars in a two week stretch, walking away with thousands.
I’m alone in a dark room in the back of a crack house, a dark colored band pulled tight on my upper arm, holding it in my teeth as I push the plunger on a syringe filled with heroin. A young girl, no more than fifteen, is out cold a few feet away, and I have trouble remembering if she had passed out or overdosed, but I vividly recall raping her as we both swirled in drug-induced stupors.
Finally, standing at the foot of the bed, Casey and her new lover, bloodied and gorish, the murder weapon still smoking in my hand.
“Your judgment awaits.” the thing spat, and I was back in the executioner's chair.
“10:56, Potassium Chloride administered,” the doctor says quietly, and I hear him take a step back. Someone shuffles in the room, shifting their weight to another foot, and another clears his throat. The ticking of the clock on the wall becomes unbearably loud. The light above me shimmers, then turns crystal white, blinding me momentarily.
There’s something in it, or in front of it, and I squint my eyes to see, stepping forward on a soft blanket of white. As I move closer, unrestrained, I can make out a cross, and a gate. As soon as I could make out the shapes, I am suddenly there, and they tower above me. A man in a white robe and yellow sash stands nearby, a huge, ancient tome propped upon a pedestal before him.
“Ryker King.” His voice flows like honey, liquid gold. “This is your chance for atonement.”
“Then what? Back to Hell?”
“Where you go beyond this is your choice.”
“That’s what the last guy said...”
But I am hit with another wave of emotion before I finish, this time of pain, anger, and terror.
I see myself, screaming in a fit of rage, pointing my finger inches from my nose, only it’s not my nose, it’s Casey’s. I’m her.
I, Casey, begin to cry, sobbing for forgiveness and pleading for me to leave. ‘Just walk away’ we say, ‘and I’ll come back to you. I promise. It will all be different, we can both change, right? It doesn’t have to be like this.’
But it does. It had to be exactly this way.
The Ryker in front of me pistol whips the man next to me, knocking him unconscious. He will be no help now, and I know it. Ryker moves to the foot of the bed and raises the pistol, shooting him six times in the head and chest, splattering me and the white sheets with crimson. He drops the clip on the floor, pulling another from his back pocket, and my eyes widen in terror. I can feel the lump in my throat, threatening to cut off my airway. I suck in a breath, my last one, as it turns out. An earsplitting boom and something hot bores into my shoulder, as I release my held breath and scream in pain. I take another two hits before it stops.
The vision melts away and Casey’s scream turns into the steady cry of the cardiac monitor. I can’t see anything, but I can hear just fine, and it has flat lined.
“Ryker King, inmate number 9291452, Time of Death: Sunday, May 22, 2011, 11:02 am,” the coroner declares, and I hear him sign the certificate and hand it off. There is a muffled sob from behind the mirror, audible as the machine is turned off. My vision does not return, and the sounds in the room slowly fade away.
I realize soon enough it is not that I can’t see or hear, it’s that there's nothing here. Inky blackness stretches off into oblivion, devoid of sight and sound. I wonder where I am, and a voice, crystal clear and smooth as honey, fills my head.60
“You are in Purgatory,” It tells me.
What am I doing here?
“You must stay until you have carried out your sentence, and you embrace God’s Forgiveness.”
I don’t deserve forgiveness.
“Then you shall stay for Eternity.”
I know in that moment what I’ve done. I created my own prison with the hate within my heart, turned away from God forever. I sigh, and begin pacing, knowing within my soul the pacing will never cease.
When the Judge sentenced me to death instead of life imprisonment, my mother cried out. She had to be restrained and then removed by my two uncles, but I kept my face set like stone, revealing little in the way of emotion.
My short stint here has been harder; I’ve been on lockdown 23 hours a day. I got into a fight with my cellmate within my first few hours, sending him to a three day stay in the infirmary. I was moved immediately to the cell I now occupy: a 5x8 room with barely enough room for a cot and latrine. The peach colored walls are probably meant to be calming, but they are driving me mad, closing in on all directions, rage building within me like a caged predator. I am mindlessly pacing when they come for me.
“Big day today, King.”
“I’ll bet. Don’t forget the popcorn, sure it’ll be a show.”
“You’re on the exciting end, boy. You ant a priest?”
“Won’t do me no good. I’m damned regardless.”
“Last meal?”
“Wouldn’t do anything but prolong the inevitable.”
“Suit yourself, the warden should be down soon.”
My insides are already in knots. There’s no way I’d be able to keep anything down, and I’d rather not march down death row with a sour stomach. The guard, McNally, turns to leave and I resume my pacing. I don’t get three rounds around the tiny space before a man walks up with a book in his hands, stopping directly in front of my cell.
“Ryker King?”
“Yessir.”
“I’m Father Harris.” His black shirt holds a Roman Collar, and his hands hold a worn leather Bible.
“You can’t save me now.” I grumble, irritated at McNally for not listening to my order.
“God can, son. Would you like to confess your sins?”
“My sins were confessed in court for all to see. No point in beating dead horses.”
“Would you rather I pray over you?”
“Don’t waste your breath or my time, Father. Everything good within me died with the girl. If you really want to help, call the warden down.”
“God bless you, son. I’ll pray you find peace beyond.”
I shake my head, beyond irritated now, as the aging Father retreats down the hallway. I lean my head against the bars, trying to channel my anger into something other than murderous rage. But then, I’ve never been very good at that.
Finally the warden decides to emerge from his office, a fat man in blue uniform, practically waddling down the hall. I am absolutely disgusted at the sight of him, and sneer involuntarily. He obviously isn’t subjected to the same menu we are. He has a guard on either side of him, Castor to the right, Johnson on the left. Johnson steps up and unlocks my cell door, sliding it to the right, as Castor readies the shackles. I let him enter without fuss, not moving an inch as he binds my wrists and ankles in heavy steel. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me beg and grovel, I hold my head high.
The walk down the hall is a short one, but moves in slow motion, like a car accident you see coming but can’t avoid. The men caged on either side of me yell and jeer, but I say nothing. It will be their time soon enough.
The execution room is hardly larger than my cell, a leather gurney-chair with straps and shackles in the center, a stainless surgeon’s tray next to it containing several empty syringes and an IV bag. The far wall is covered in a one way mirror, and I know a crowd is gathered within, able to witness my demise while I see only my own reflection.
I wonder if my mother is there, brought in to see me take my last breath as she was there to see my first. I hope not. No doubt Casey’s mother is there. Probably with a smile on her face. I’m not sure I blame her.
I lay on the reclined chair, letting Castor hook my shackles to the chair as well as buckle me into the thick leather straps. My heart begins to quicken, knowing the time is growing near, made obvious to the room by the heart rate monitor a nurse hooks up. Her name tag says ‘Cynthia,’ but I try not to look her in the face. It is obvious she is uncomfortable here. Father Harris is in a far corner, waiting patiently for me to beg for my eternal soul, but I am determined to keep him waiting until the last breath leaves my body. I owe nothing to God, and He has given me nothing but pain. The coroner, already filling out my death certificate, stands next to him.
A man in a while lab coat and no name tag shuffles in, vials in hand. He moves to the steel tray, drawing the liquid from each vial into a syringe. Cynthia comes up to my tightly bound arm and begins poking for a vein.
“Just follow the tracks, sweetheart.” Her face colors.
I barely feel the sting as the needle hits home, and she tapes it securely in place, raising the IV bag and hooking it onto the stand. A clear liquid begins to drip, though I have no idea what it is. I guess it doesn't matter much, anyway.
“Any last words, Ryker?” The warden asks.
“No, sir.”
“You sure?”
I nod and glare into the halogen light shining above me. Let’s just get it over with, already.
“Time start, 10: 52 am.” The doctor states, and Cynthia scribbles on a paper. He inserts the first syringe into the clear cord of the IV drip, pushing the plunger without hesitation. “Sodium Thiopental injected.”
Within seconds my vision blurs, then blinks out. I know my eyes are staring wide, still trained on the light above me, though I see nothing else.
A short moment passes, and I hear the doctor again. “10:53, Pancuronium applied.”
My skin begins to burn at my arm, and I try to swipe at it with my left hand, but I am held fast by the restraints. The burning does not subside, instead races up my arm to envelop my chest, abdomen, and legs. I turn my head to look upon myself, and I can see again, a great fire burning upon my skin, leaving welts and blisters. My breath comes fast and I know I am beginning to panic.
No, this can't be right. I’m not ready for this. Stop! I shout within my head, but the words will not come out of my mouth, or have fallen on deaf ears. The burning continues, and I catch movement in my peripheral vision, turning the attention away from my now melting skin. A superbly dressed man in a black suit is standing in front of me, ebony hair slicked back and a wicked smile on his face.
“Ryker King,” he hisses nastily, “Do you know where you are?”
Hell, I assume, and I tell him so.
“Correct.”
“How long will I have to stay?”
“You are here to learn from your mistakess. Beyond that, the choice to stay or go is upon you.”
“I don’t understand...” I begin, but I’m hit with a wave of emotion so hard I nearly topple over. I am immediately gripped in a burning hate.
I’m standing in my old kitchen again, screaming at Casey for the umpteenth time. I’m not even sure what I’m yelling about anymore, but she huddles on the floor, cowering, a bruise beginning to mark her pretty face.
I’m standing in an empty street, pavement shiny with fresh rain, taking a crowbar to the window of a Mercedes Benz and jacking anything of value from within. I hit 37 cars in a two week stretch, walking away with thousands.
I’m alone in a dark room in the back of a crack house, a dark colored band pulled tight on my upper arm, holding it in my teeth as I push the plunger on a syringe filled with heroin. A young girl, no more than fifteen, is out cold a few feet away, and I have trouble remembering if she had passed out or overdosed, but I vividly recall raping her as we both swirled in drug-induced stupors.
Finally, standing at the foot of the bed, Casey and her new lover, bloodied and gorish, the murder weapon still smoking in my hand.
“Your judgment awaits.” the thing spat, and I was back in the executioner's chair.
“10:56, Potassium Chloride administered,” the doctor says quietly, and I hear him take a step back. Someone shuffles in the room, shifting their weight to another foot, and another clears his throat. The ticking of the clock on the wall becomes unbearably loud. The light above me shimmers, then turns crystal white, blinding me momentarily.
There’s something in it, or in front of it, and I squint my eyes to see, stepping forward on a soft blanket of white. As I move closer, unrestrained, I can make out a cross, and a gate. As soon as I could make out the shapes, I am suddenly there, and they tower above me. A man in a white robe and yellow sash stands nearby, a huge, ancient tome propped upon a pedestal before him.
“Ryker King.” His voice flows like honey, liquid gold. “This is your chance for atonement.”
“Then what? Back to Hell?”
“Where you go beyond this is your choice.”
“That’s what the last guy said...”
But I am hit with another wave of emotion before I finish, this time of pain, anger, and terror.
I see myself, screaming in a fit of rage, pointing my finger inches from my nose, only it’s not my nose, it’s Casey’s. I’m her.
I, Casey, begin to cry, sobbing for forgiveness and pleading for me to leave. ‘Just walk away’ we say, ‘and I’ll come back to you. I promise. It will all be different, we can both change, right? It doesn’t have to be like this.’
But it does. It had to be exactly this way.
The Ryker in front of me pistol whips the man next to me, knocking him unconscious. He will be no help now, and I know it. Ryker moves to the foot of the bed and raises the pistol, shooting him six times in the head and chest, splattering me and the white sheets with crimson. He drops the clip on the floor, pulling another from his back pocket, and my eyes widen in terror. I can feel the lump in my throat, threatening to cut off my airway. I suck in a breath, my last one, as it turns out. An earsplitting boom and something hot bores into my shoulder, as I release my held breath and scream in pain. I take another two hits before it stops.
The vision melts away and Casey’s scream turns into the steady cry of the cardiac monitor. I can’t see anything, but I can hear just fine, and it has flat lined.
“Ryker King, inmate number 9291452, Time of Death: Sunday, May 22, 2011, 11:02 am,” the coroner declares, and I hear him sign the certificate and hand it off. There is a muffled sob from behind the mirror, audible as the machine is turned off. My vision does not return, and the sounds in the room slowly fade away.
I realize soon enough it is not that I can’t see or hear, it’s that there's nothing here. Inky blackness stretches off into oblivion, devoid of sight and sound. I wonder where I am, and a voice, crystal clear and smooth as honey, fills my head.60
“You are in Purgatory,” It tells me.
What am I doing here?
“You must stay until you have carried out your sentence, and you embrace God’s Forgiveness.”
I don’t deserve forgiveness.
“Then you shall stay for Eternity.”
I know in that moment what I’ve done. I created my own prison with the hate within my heart, turned away from God forever. I sigh, and begin pacing, knowing within my soul the pacing will never cease.