The Next Room

There is no real way of describing how first walking into that room had been like, for me anyway. It is a culmination of pain, of a sadness so deep that it was virtually beyond logical explanation.The waiting room is crowded; mostly couples, a few news reporters, the usual legal team in the far corner. They are all here to watch it happen, to watch him die - hungry eyes drinking in the sight of the empty room beyond the glass pane. They come here for justice, for revenge in a way, and redemption. There is an electricity in the air that you could almost describe as eagerness. Everyone in this room eagerly await that moment, when the injection will take it's toll and the world lose another soul. They do not busy themselves with the thought of the very little humanity involved in such a punishment. The monster will die today, and they are happy.

I take the seat on the furthest right, as close to the empty back row as I possibly can and wait. No one notices me, not at first, and the buzz around me continues.

"This is wrong," one whispers, somewhere behind me. "This is justice," another states, "for what he has done, I hope he burns in hell." There is a sense of supressed anger, bubbling just beneath the surface. The atmosphere within the room mimic how our lives had been for the past few months. The accusatory glances, bullying, the verbal and physical attacks in school. All that doesn't matter though, not now. Now, all there is is the room beyond that two way glass wall, the table with it's leather straps,the machines that line the head of the table and the stark white paint that covers the four walls. For the first few moments that I spend there, I feel my world expand and contract until it consists solely of the room before me.

Right on time the door in the next room opens and a man in a lab coat enters. He is a middle aged, grey haired Caucasian and has baby blue eyes. His face looks kind, and his angular features are softened by a poorly styled cowlick. It is easy to imagine him in a school room of some sort, teaching the alphabet to young kindergarteners.

He makes his way to the machines and checks it over, clicking buttons and adjusting knobs. Behind him there is a Catholic priest, two uniformed prison guards and then behind them, behind them is him.

He wears an orange overall, typical prisoner uniform, and his hands and feet are chained. The prison guard immediately before him holds one end of this chain, leading him into the room like one would a cow to the slaughterhouse. He walks with his back straight and head held high, eyes looking straight ahead. The atmosphere in the room changes almost instantly.

People stand and start shouting at the image of the man in the other room, despite knowing that the audio here is one way and others begin to cry.

I do not move. Seated as I am, my hands folded on my lap, I watch the bright orange suit make it's way to the edge of the table and sit down. The prison warden walks forward, a grim look on his face. He looks through the glass window, rather uncomfortably, at the screaming crowd and drags his dark eyes over the faces in the room with me. Unsurprisingly, they rest on mine.

He turns to the man in orange, whispers something in his ear and the man turns. The monster turns. He looks around, past the jeering faces and finds mine. And the facade that he has pulled up begins to crumble.

Daddy...

The formalities are gone through. A voice in the white room reads him his sentence, his crimes and the ruling. It is monotonous, having done it dozens of times before today, and seems devoid of emotion, of humanity. The monster in orange keeps his eyes trained on mine, even as he responds to the questions presented to him. He does not look away and neither do I.

A police officer in the room I am in attempts to bring order back to the crowd and the jeering stops. The whispers, however, do not.

My eyes close of their own accord and I am somewhere else. I am ten, younger perhaps and we are walking through forty sixth street. There is an ice cream cone in my hand and a steaming hot pretzel in his. We are happy here, in this time, and free. He is free.

The cool Autumn breeze bites at my cheeks, and golden brown leaves scatter around us.

"Do you think Mama would have liked to be here?" I ask, looking up at the man beside me. He turns and watches me for a moment. There is uncertainty in his brown eyes, and an unconscious grimace that I do not miss. I know that he does not like to talk about her, not since after the accident, but I do not care. I miss her and I know that he does too. He turns away again.

"Daddy, do you miss her a lot?" I say again. The big hand that leads mine, warm and secure, tightens the slightest and he stops walking. I stop too.

He sighs deeply, turns to face me and gets on his knee. At eye level, my father does not seem as large as he had just a few moments before. Maybe it was the sadness in his eyes that made this so.

"I miss her every single moment, of every single day of my life," he tells me. The tears prick at my eyes and I blink. Suddenly, I am back in that room, my hands on my lap, my breath slow and halted. He has not looked away, not yet anyway. There are tears in those eyes though, and he looks smaller, much like he had that day on forty sixth street. I feel the sob build up in my chest, but push it away. I will not cry, I will not break. I will be brave today, for him.

The guard walks forward and unlinks the chains, and then the priest. The balding man mutters a prayer, signs the cross and reads the final rites. My father's eyes close and I see his throat work down a gulp. His shoulders slump forward and he nods. Then, his eyes open again and he looks away. My heart thuds so loudly in my chest that I am surprised no one else has noticed.

The man in the lab coat walks forward and places a hand on Daddy's shoulder, pulling him down to the table. My father resists once, twice, then after what seems like a long moment, turns to look at me again. Then he lays back and brings his feet and arms up to the straps. The prison guards tighten the leather belts around his wrists and angles, and the three across his chest and legs. The lab coat places a heart monitor peg on one of the fingers of his left hand and the monitors flicker to life. It takes only a few minutes but the process lasts hours in my mind. The man in the lab coat pulls out a syringe from a case beside the machines and flicks it once, twice. I stop breathing.

Daddy still does not turn away. He watches me, keeps his eyes trained on me. I glance back at him and I think some sort of panic must have painted itself across my face because he frowns.

Don't watch him, he tells me, keep your eyes on me, okay?

I nod and my eyes shut. We are at the cliffs, dangling a hundred feet in the air. We had been abseiling down the cliff face but we are stuck now. I am hanging upside down, one of the strap buckles tearing into my side. The wound looks worse than it feels and I am screaming. There is pain, and blood and Dad is trying to get to me.

"Michelle, look at me, look at me!" he calls out.

I turn, see him and stop crying. "It hurts, Daddy," I whimper. He nods, "I know, sweetie, I know. But keep your eyes on me, okay? Don't look at it, just on me, okay?"

The moment passes and I am there again, in that room. The doctor is still testing the syringe and Daddy is watching me.

Don't watch him.

Then, time slows and the doctor moves forward. I am hyperventilating. It's happening. It really is happening.

Desperately, I turn to my father and keep his gaze for as long as I can. This is all we have now, all that we are going to have anymore. It's going to end, it really is going to end, and we will be no more. The classic father daughter team will be no more. I will be alone and he will be gone. I start to whimper.

Oh my god.

The man pushes the needle into skin and depresses the syringe. Seconds pass by and my mind alternates between the here and now, and the then and before.

"Daddy, catch!"

One.

"Dad, this is Alex, Alex this is my dad."

Two.

"Look at me, Michelle, keep your eyes on me."

Three.

"I love you too, Daddy,"

Four.

There is a small pause, a moment where the world seems to hold it's breath and my father's crinkled eyelids, the brown eyes that I had found so much comfort in, close. The monitors of the machines beside the table beep once, then flat line.

Five.

And he is gone.