Dignity in Death
Everything Changes
“Date, July 15th, 2252. Regarding the trial of Cecil Diggory for the unspeakable theft of ancient works from the Classic English Museum residing in Liverpool.”
The world seemed to stand still as Diggory entered, chained to a chair that moved at an impossibly slow speed. It was to give all of the spectators a good view of the damned. His face was solemn, as if he knew exactly what was going to happen and he had come to terms with it. Upon his head was a tuff of dark brown, his eyes an emerald green, as he looked out into the crowd, a knowing smirk breached his lips. It was a smirk that entered the souls of all involved. A sea of the ordinary was there to greet him, face void of all expressions, even pity.
Long since the death penalty had been abolished, they found more creative ways to punish the guilty. Few of them were legal, the system of justice was hardly law-abiding in its practices. Corrupt cops were littered throughout the world, from London to Liverpool, nowhere was left untouched by the hands of those guilty of the most crimes. It was doubted that they ever would be.
The judge pulled out a bracelet, it was nothing the observers hadn’t seen before. Simple and black, the device was given out by only the most cynical of judges and the ones who enjoyed giving pain.
Judge Hawthorne was possibly the worst, preaching with great pride the doings of his ancestors, including another Judge Hathorne, who was in the ancient trails full of the ignorant. Hawthorne, the great love of many prosecutors and the worst fear of defense attorneys, was known for his unfair and painful rulings. Proudly holding the device in his hands, to an observer it would seem particularly innocent, a simple black band. However, this multi-purpose weapon was used as a tracking device and a torturing device. It was created for those with an affinity of theft, the unassuming object had the ability to detect when something- anything- was stolen, and the one who stole it would be put through excruciating pain as blades slide through his skin at the wrist, only to end once the wrong was righted. Some have been reported to have cut off their own hand in a futile attempt to rid themselves of the device, but the limb would be replaced, as would the device. All of their attempts would be rendered useless. Pathetic, really.
“He has been sentences to life wearing this device, a sign of his indecency forever, and five years under the care and constant supervision of a civilian. Any volunteers?” Hawthorne’s malicious smile shone through his dark eyes, he enjoyed this.
This was the moment, a hushed silence fell throughout the room. A pen dropping would be the loudest thing heard, and the soft sound of an old computer processing, was deafening.
Vivien Moreau sat, seemingly calm and collected. She was silently typing, ignoring all that was around her. The tenseness seemed to roll off of her and create the illusion of utter indifference. One in four hundred, the odds were in her favor. The chance that this civil duty would fall upon her shoulders were astronomical. No, she would be just fine.
Looking down at her tablet, she continued to type the report:
The Trial of Cecil Diggory: Art Theft
To what right is it that this man, who has a history, a family, would be given a fate as cruel as death in this day? Cecil Diggory was born to an artist, as a child he was switched around at his father’s will, no consideration for the son. This man has done nothing more than do what he believed was right. To live and to prosper. In this age it seems particularly cruel that we must be forced to sit and watch as one of our own citizen are thrust into a world where they will never be right again. As I look before me, I see faces that are void of trust, emotion, or pity. They are truly products of their own generation, and they do not care. A man will be unjustly set into a home where the people surrounding him will treat him like dirt, feed him little, and cause him as much pain as a man can be subjected to. They will intentionally put on the airs of an innocent being, and intentionally force him to “steal” without even his knowledge. To cause him pain. Who’s at fault, here? Is it the man who stole to stay afloat, or the society that caused him this necessity?
She deleted her file and took a breath, she couldn’t do something like that, create a story in which society was to blame. Life as a reporter was frustrating when she could only feed the media stories they would accept, that were socially acceptable and that would cause them happiness. It seemed the only time they were happy was when they had someone to blame. So caught up in her thoughts, Vivien didn’t hear her name called, or the quiet murmurs that followed. It wasn’t until she was called twice and the person next to her alerted her, that she looked up, eyes wide.
“No.” She said it, before she realized what she did, and then the murmurs turned into utter silence. She didn’t want to babysit this man, but she also didn’t want to be held in contempt.
“Excuse me?” Dark, loathsome eyes bore into her, and suddenly it seemed as if her tongue weighed at least twenty pounds, “I uh—I mean—of course, I’m happy to.”
Everyone knew the lie, they were familiar with it and they all would have responded the same lie. Of course, I’m happy to. I’m glad to serve my government. This is for the greater good. Of course, I’m happy to. Chants circulating with no meaning, only common indifference. She pitied herself, not him, she would treat him like a human being at least. Ironic how the only advocate of life didn’t want to help this man’s. Perhaps she was as cynical as the rest.
“Then it’s settled.” No, she wanted to say, it’s not, this entire thing is shit, I shouldn’t be doing this. No one should. Don’t force someone into housing a stranger. She smiled and looked down, putting her tablet away. “Then it’s settled,” she muttered under her breath.
The world seemed to stand still as Diggory entered, chained to a chair that moved at an impossibly slow speed. It was to give all of the spectators a good view of the damned. His face was solemn, as if he knew exactly what was going to happen and he had come to terms with it. Upon his head was a tuff of dark brown, his eyes an emerald green, as he looked out into the crowd, a knowing smirk breached his lips. It was a smirk that entered the souls of all involved. A sea of the ordinary was there to greet him, face void of all expressions, even pity.
Long since the death penalty had been abolished, they found more creative ways to punish the guilty. Few of them were legal, the system of justice was hardly law-abiding in its practices. Corrupt cops were littered throughout the world, from London to Liverpool, nowhere was left untouched by the hands of those guilty of the most crimes. It was doubted that they ever would be.
The judge pulled out a bracelet, it was nothing the observers hadn’t seen before. Simple and black, the device was given out by only the most cynical of judges and the ones who enjoyed giving pain.
Judge Hawthorne was possibly the worst, preaching with great pride the doings of his ancestors, including another Judge Hathorne, who was in the ancient trails full of the ignorant. Hawthorne, the great love of many prosecutors and the worst fear of defense attorneys, was known for his unfair and painful rulings. Proudly holding the device in his hands, to an observer it would seem particularly innocent, a simple black band. However, this multi-purpose weapon was used as a tracking device and a torturing device. It was created for those with an affinity of theft, the unassuming object had the ability to detect when something- anything- was stolen, and the one who stole it would be put through excruciating pain as blades slide through his skin at the wrist, only to end once the wrong was righted. Some have been reported to have cut off their own hand in a futile attempt to rid themselves of the device, but the limb would be replaced, as would the device. All of their attempts would be rendered useless. Pathetic, really.
“He has been sentences to life wearing this device, a sign of his indecency forever, and five years under the care and constant supervision of a civilian. Any volunteers?” Hawthorne’s malicious smile shone through his dark eyes, he enjoyed this.
This was the moment, a hushed silence fell throughout the room. A pen dropping would be the loudest thing heard, and the soft sound of an old computer processing, was deafening.
Vivien Moreau sat, seemingly calm and collected. She was silently typing, ignoring all that was around her. The tenseness seemed to roll off of her and create the illusion of utter indifference. One in four hundred, the odds were in her favor. The chance that this civil duty would fall upon her shoulders were astronomical. No, she would be just fine.
Looking down at her tablet, she continued to type the report:
The Trial of Cecil Diggory: Art Theft
To what right is it that this man, who has a history, a family, would be given a fate as cruel as death in this day? Cecil Diggory was born to an artist, as a child he was switched around at his father’s will, no consideration for the son. This man has done nothing more than do what he believed was right. To live and to prosper. In this age it seems particularly cruel that we must be forced to sit and watch as one of our own citizen are thrust into a world where they will never be right again. As I look before me, I see faces that are void of trust, emotion, or pity. They are truly products of their own generation, and they do not care. A man will be unjustly set into a home where the people surrounding him will treat him like dirt, feed him little, and cause him as much pain as a man can be subjected to. They will intentionally put on the airs of an innocent being, and intentionally force him to “steal” without even his knowledge. To cause him pain. Who’s at fault, here? Is it the man who stole to stay afloat, or the society that caused him this necessity?
She deleted her file and took a breath, she couldn’t do something like that, create a story in which society was to blame. Life as a reporter was frustrating when she could only feed the media stories they would accept, that were socially acceptable and that would cause them happiness. It seemed the only time they were happy was when they had someone to blame. So caught up in her thoughts, Vivien didn’t hear her name called, or the quiet murmurs that followed. It wasn’t until she was called twice and the person next to her alerted her, that she looked up, eyes wide.
“No.” She said it, before she realized what she did, and then the murmurs turned into utter silence. She didn’t want to babysit this man, but she also didn’t want to be held in contempt.
“Excuse me?” Dark, loathsome eyes bore into her, and suddenly it seemed as if her tongue weighed at least twenty pounds, “I uh—I mean—of course, I’m happy to.”
Everyone knew the lie, they were familiar with it and they all would have responded the same lie. Of course, I’m happy to. I’m glad to serve my government. This is for the greater good. Of course, I’m happy to. Chants circulating with no meaning, only common indifference. She pitied herself, not him, she would treat him like a human being at least. Ironic how the only advocate of life didn’t want to help this man’s. Perhaps she was as cynical as the rest.
“Then it’s settled.” No, she wanted to say, it’s not, this entire thing is shit, I shouldn’t be doing this. No one should. Don’t force someone into housing a stranger. She smiled and looked down, putting her tablet away. “Then it’s settled,” she muttered under her breath.