Electrocution at Seven. (Story)

I remember the man walking up to the veranda of our quaint apartment between twelfth and fourteenth street.   1

His shoulders sagged as his weight bore down on them.  He was massive, and as he walked I am sure he dented the ground.  He wore a black overcoat concealing something, as he dutifully walked up to the porch, where my child, Jamie, and my wife and I sat.  The sky hung low that day, and bitter clouds attacked the dim sun, blindfolding it.  Jamie idly rolled his yellow truck across the ground, making his jovial vroom sounds.  My wife sat beside me, reading the paper, lamenting over the poor situation of the people of the world.  I sat, dreaming, watching the clouds lull over the sun.  2

He dragged up the steps, knocking a vase full of daisies over with his broad shoulders. I hurriedly told my wife to bring Jamie inside the house and lock the door.  She responded to the persuasion and mastery in my resounding voice, and even after I said it, you could hear the reverberations.3

'Where is the money!'  The man spoke, in his low hiss of a voice.  It was repugnant and besieged the ears with its baritone twang.  His breath smelled of garlic and decay.4

'I am out of the game, Eddy.'  I responded.5

'No... you aren't.  You owe money, and you will pay with either cash or your life'  He stuttered briefly, then shouted 'No, actually, you will pay with the life of your wife and kid!'6

He opened his coat, revealing his concealed weapon.  Its glare, even without the aid of sun, made me momentarily squint.  7

'I don't have any money.'  I replied, nervously.8

He shifted his weight, apparently digesting the words.  I stared, awaiting his decision.  I was calmly reclined in the rocking chair, slowly rocking.  I noticed the liquid in the vase of daisies running down the stairs.  He had made up his mind, and he took out his gun and went for the screen door.  I pounced, grabbing the pieces of jagged white vase on the way.  I jumped on him.9

The vase ran red.10

11

Electrocution at seven…12

The walls, slightly obtrusive, stood, enclosing me.  They were made of pure concrete, holding a dreary gray color which reflected the sunken ceiling of the cell.  It hung oppressively low, and every time I stood, I chanced grazing my head on its bumpy surface.    13

I remained seated on the bed in the corner.  There were two plastic carts off in the other corner; one blue and one gray.  There was also a man adorned on the gray one.14

I rocked on the bed, reflecting.  The scantily clad bed had donned a poor excuse for a pillow, and multitudes of my own pallid drool. As I fussed over the future, my momentary companion held his head low, eyes transfixed on the ground.  His sullen stare and wispy hair of matted cobweb hid his empty eyes.  Still transfixed, his breath was barely audible, and were it not for his irregular deep sighs, it could be possible that he sat there dead.  He was nothing more than a granite fixture; a compliment to the dismal cell.15

I let out a deep sigh, clearing my lungs and mind of loose thoughts.  I recounted circumstance; electrocution at seven.  16

I assumed my companion bore the same weight.  “Man, arnt’cha worried?”  My voice seemed to echo off of his barren temperament.  “I’m Jim Masconi.”  I stuck my hand in his face offering companionship for the brief time we had left.  He stood up, rigid and erect, and I knew his taciturnity held valor.  He sighed, then regurgitated some random combination of monosyllabic ughs and grunts, and then sat back down on the gray plastic cart.  The cart yielded and bent as his weight overwhelmed it.  “Well,” I  blundered, “This is no way to treat your last friend.”  17

I had calmed a little, and knelt down to pray.  My bare knee came in contact with the frigid floor, and I recoiled.  I knelt back down after the brief moment of shock, and began reciting my prayers.  18

I prayed aloud for forgiveness, for mercy, for the world.  I prayed for my wife, the woman with the cherry lollipop lips and hair as red as an autumn sunset reflecting off of the trees of a New England field.  I prayed for my child.  I prayed mostly for my child.  My child, his thin blonde hair, so blonde it’s as if a drop was squeezed out of the sun and into his hair.  His coy playful smile stretched from dimple to dimple, as it was immune to pain, to heartbreak, to everything.  I wish I could have such innocence.  I prayed for him.19

Now, as if snapped out of his deep trance, the man uttered, “Now why ya’ doing that?  You sure are in a lugubrious state.”  I froze.  The words rolled off his tongue, and were so smooth it seemed the hinges between syllables were lubricated.    20

“Now why shouldn’t I pray?”21

“Why should you?”22

“To … help others, of course.” I managed.23

“Has it ever worked?”  He retorted.24

“Well of course.”  25

I had risen from the metal cot, while he remained seated.  Even though he was seated, his countenance seized the room, drawing the walls closer in.  I was suddenly besieged by overwhelming claustrophobia and the smell of weak cabbage and potatoes on his breath.  His face was no longer angular and weak, but full and prominent.  His eyes seemed to reflect his dominance.  They were hazel and filled the room.  26

“Then why hasn’t it worked yet?  Surely whoever you pray to would have enough clemency to grant ya’ the rest of your life with your child.  If your god is so mighty, make him destroy your chains.”  He nearly shouted.27

I shrunk in my chains.  They suddenly became noticeably heavy, and dragged my arms to the ground in defeat.  He grew in his chains, however, overwhelming the plain pieces of metal until they were mere freckles on his wrist.  His towering mass made me cower.  28

“How do you know about my child?” was all I could mutter.29

“Hmrph”30

He shrunk back into his seat and into his trance.  Who was this man, and what if I never see my child again?  I lay down, and began to thrash about.  Eternity without my child was unbearable.  The man’s eyes were transfixed, but this time on me.  He stood up this time, and in his resonating voice, filled the chamber.  31

“Do not be afraid, my friend.  All you need to know is that you shall never dream again.”  32

“What?”  I said, incredulously.33

“No dreams.  No heaven, no hell.  Nothing.”  34

“What is the point of life?”35

“To make the world the best place to pass on to your children.”  He mused.36

“That’s simple.  What happens to the bad people, like me?”37

“They don’t dream.”38

“And the good ones?”  I inquired.39

“They don’t dream” He added.40

“What’s the point of being good?”41

“World wouldn’t be too good to pass down to your children if everyone ran over everyone else to get ahead.'  He halted for a second, preparing a thought that I could see forming on his tongue.  42

'You live by your last words.”43

He then restarted his meditation, concentrating on a glint of light which escaped the nearby window and lay prostrate in the middle of the cell.  I rose from the bed, and sat on an adjacent blue cart, as it slightly bent on the sides.  I transfixed my eyes to the glint of light.  It was nearly seven.44

45

As I sat in the chair, they wet my head, which was bald.  They had shaved my head upon my request.  Hair was always so cumbersome.  The wizened chair had several gritted lines on the hand rests, and was aged to perfection.  My legs and arms were strapped, but I figured it as a mere formality.  46

My companion stood across the room.  I yelled to him as they fit my head with the leather piece and strapped it on. “Thanks.  By the way, what are you down for?”  He jumped, apparently dazed and confused.  “What?  I am a guard.”  He responded defensively.  He looked utterly confused.  They flipped the first switch to concentrate the power, as the lights dimmed.  I wondered if he was the same man who I spoke with earlier.  They fit my head with the black mask to hide my face.47

“Any last words?”  48

“No”49

They began the countdown.  ...3...  I knew I shouldn’t be there.  Why was I here?  I must get out.  I must dream.  ...2...  Why are they doing this?  I was paralyzed with fear.  What if I dream and go to hell?  I can’t.  I won’t.  ...1...  Life, what a mockery!  Wait, I have only my last words to pass on!  50

“Tell my son to …”51

The lights flickered on and off, on and off. 52

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