The Last Hour

Tick. Tick. Tick.

            In an hour, a man would die at my hands. I held out the offending appendages, finding them shaking. I frowned. I flipped them over and examined my palms.  Grandmama had said I had a beautifully long life line; would that be marred after today?  No, that was ridiculous, of course. I pushed a hand through my short, blonde hair, thinking of Grandmama, how she consulted the tarot before making decisions. I had made this decision too lightly, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to follow through. But what would The Boss make of that?  I looked out the lone window in the room I waited in. I thought of my victim to be. Male, bald, 43 years old. Father of two small children, whose laughter I could hear ringing across the courtyard. Three, the oldest was three. Neither of these babies would understand. Would they grow up resenting me? Could they possibly seek vengeance of their own as adults, catching me unawares in my sleep? It wasn’t a kind world we lived in, and the homicide I was scheduled to perform in fifty-two minutes proved that. This was of course, retribution for a homicide committed by the man in question, but somehow that didn’t settle the shaking of these hands.

Tick. Tick Tick

            Forty-seven minutes of life left for the man I was to kill. Octavius Jones. I pictured his face in my mind, his black skin and smile missing his left front tooth. My heart started pounding as I fought to accept the certainty of what I was hired to do. I thought of the conversation I’d had with The Boss two weeks prior, sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard. The Boss was a rotund man in his late fifties, a smattering of salt and pepper hair, simply cut. He had been impeccably dressed in a button-down Western shirt, Wrangler jeans, and cowboy boots. Only his steel gray eyes showed any evidence of the deaths he’d ordered, a coldness there that took my breath away. When I’d asked how to mentally prepare myself, he’d taken a long, thoughtful puff off his Cuban cigar, looked at me with those eyes of steel, and said, “Look kid, you can’t go making their problem, your problem.” I tried to cling to that now, remembering the brutal murder Octavius had committed that had sealed his fate. Twenty-seven times he’d stabbed his victim, and of course The Boss wanted justice for that. Still, as I tried to cling to his words, I felt my stomach churn. Thankful I’d declined the offer of lunch; I nevertheless located the trash can in the room. I crossed the room, picking it up, and placing it beside my metal chair.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

            With twenty-seven minutes to go, I had just finished dry heaving into the trash can. I tried to recall the names of any of the gods my Grandmama prayed to. I hoped to offer a prayer of my own to these all-seeing deities. Alas, their names escaped me. Perhaps, I pondered, none of them want to lend their assistance in the killing of a man. In truth, neither did I. “Grandmama,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, “I’d love just a shred of your wisdom in these moments, a shred of peace.”  She, too, remained silent, and I was grateful for that. I imagined her on the other side of the veil, turning her back on her eldest grandson. Instead of the relief I expected to find, I felt agony. She would never have approved of the job I’d taken. What kind of man was I growing up to be? Would she still have raised me from boyhood, teaching me mysteries of the tarot and the lost arts of palmistry if she knew what I was going to do today? No. I thought of the words she oft repeated, so dear to her that she displayed them in her kitchen: “And it harm none, do as ye will.” I was harming a man today, taking him from this earthly plane while his children were too young to understand why they’d never see their father again.  My own father had passed before I was old enough to say his name, and I still bore the wounds of that today. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, knowing his children would never hear me.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

            Eighteen minutes. Eighteen fucking minutes. Gods, I hated that clock on the wall. It was so cheap, just a black-and-white plastic clock counting down the last few minutes of a man’s life, echoing off the concrete walls and into my skull. It was counting down my fate too, a deed I couldn’t undo. I would be a changed man after this.  I took a sip of my long-forgotten water, placed the bottle down beside that godawful metal chair, and put my head into both my hands, steeling my resolve. A sharp knock on the door caught my attention. I opened it, finding The Boss there, along with two of his cronies, a man and a woman dressed identically in beige. The Boss simply said, “It’s time” with an expression as steely and cold as those eyes of his. I squared my shoulders and followed them to the death chamber. I’d told myself I wasn’t going to look at the gurney, but it demanded my attention. It was a malevolent thing in the center of the room. While the guards began checking the restraints, I checked the IV lines, the needles, making sure there was nothing that would impede their progress. The Boss checked his own breast pocket, ensuring he had the death warrant for Octavius Jones.  The female guard handed him a statement Octavius had prepared in advance. “Praise be to Jesus,” it read, “And may my children grow up to be better than I was.” That was it. “Five minutes,” The Boss drawled, and then turned to the guards, “I guess y’all better go and get him.”  The air around me was so thick I couldn’t draw a deep breath as they left, and I was grateful, for it would have shuddered.

            They returned shortly, Octavius dressed in a clean T-shirt and striped prison pants.  The priest followed, although he would have already given him the last rites. I wondered if this was hard for a man of the cloth, but his role here was as necessary as my own. I knew the family of the woman Octavius had murdered was watching through the window, as well as his own brother. Octavius seemed to feel the heaviness in the air as well, but walked with purpose to his demise. He laid on the gurney, and extended his arms, the guards making quick work of restraining him, and checking he was properly restrained. The female guard nodded to the warden, The Boss, and he bowed his head. The priest was murmuring a prayer, and when he fell silent, The Boss began to read the death warrant.

            I heard none of the warrant though, because as The Boss began to read, Octavius caught my eye.  The world melted away as I looked into those deep brown eyes, and saw… remorse, humanity, and a calm acceptance of his fate which I could not imagine feeling in that moment. I wondered what he saw in my own blue eyes, if he knew how much those moments of eye contact meant for me. When the warden had finished, he nodded curtly to me, the room falling silent, as I picked up the needle. I glanced again at my gloved hand, as I held it. In two minutes, I would be committing a homicide, sanctioned by the state of Texas. I took a deep breath, and found a vein, and began.