Sweat dripped from the man’s standard prisoner’s issue white t-shirt as he waited for the inevitable. He didn’t know whether or not he would hear the sound, but he was certain that whenever it was time, that he would be one of the first to know. His wrists were sore from the cuffs he had been in when they brought him here, and now the rope that bound him to the thick oak post dug into the crevices those cuffs had helped to create. The blindfold prevented him from seeing, but he could feel the warm scarlet liquid run its course down his hands as the coppery smell wafted up to him. The smell, though, he knew was not from his own body, but those who had passed before him. He could feel their fear race up and down his spine, like a ghost tickling him from ages beyond the grave. The heat of lives past rose from the ground, and he tried to take comfort in it, finding only pain, sorrow, and fear. His lips began to move in silent prayer, like the thief at Christ’s side, accepting sin in the final hour.

The air was completely still, the blindfold kept him from seeing if he was inside or if the air itself was simply too frightened to move. It seemed heavier too, pressing down on his chest with every breath he took, taking them deeply for fear that each would be his last. His thoughts went back to his parents, who would have to move from their neighborhood to avoid being shamed by the Walton’s across the street. His little brother would grow up knowing that he had thrown his life away, what if Patrick fell into that same rut? Heart throbbing both from anticipation and ache, he cried tears that none would see through his hood. Tears between him and God.

If it weren’t for the support of the pillar behind him, his body would have collapsed long before now. It had been so simple to shoot that clerk and empty the register that he had hardly thought twice about it until they arrived on his doorstep to bring him in; the cameras had got him like they always did anymore. After that it had seemed too real. From the minute they first 

slammed the door on him to this morning when he had eaten his last meal, the colors had been more vibrant than ever and he knew that everything that was around him was real. He knew it because it was the feeling directly opposite that of falling in love. It had all the intensity but none of the passion, all of the weight, but none of that tingle inside.

He let out a deep sight that seemed as if it had been stored within for ages, and smelled the residue of smoke on his breath from his last cigarette. It had seemed that as soon as he had spit it out and ground it with his foot that they had clamped the hood tight over his head, as if to hide the fact as soon as possible that there was indeed a human underneath. A man of flesh that breaths and bleeds as well as any. They would be discovering the latter of this soon enough.

“Ready,” he heard loud and clear from somewhere directly ahead of him. The echo told him that he was indeed in a room, probably one with big concrete walls that seemed to go on for stories, dwarfing even a tall man.

“Aim,” sounded the second command. The moment was coming, the moment when it would all end. When he would feel that great force strike him and then no more. When he would discover Heaven or Hell. He laughed. He had spent such a large time before and after his crime devoting his life to Christianity, and he could just see Muhammad or Buddha waiting to carnally correct him for his misplacement of faith.

“Fi..”