The Day I Died

Sensitive Content Warning: Depiction of an execution.

He was hoping for an end that would leave everyone disappointed as the fibers of the rope scratched along the skin. That alone would have been enough of a pain but then it was tightened and he could already feel his breathing become restricted. This was the true sign of the torment to come. He only hoped he’d be one of the lucky ones who died instantly. It didn’t happen often, but a snapped neck would occasionally occur and that would be the end of the show. He always hated that with public executions, as did the rest of the crowd. It was always more satisfying to watch them flail about as they choked in midair. It was more of a spectacle for everyone. He never thought much about how the condemned felt. Nobody did. But now, being on the other side of that performance, he was hoping for the mercy he never wished for others.

“Any final requests?” The executioner’s voice was grated by a lifetime of chain smoking, something that could also be detected by his stench. He seemed like a man who couldn’t do much else but send people to their deaths. A missing eye and unkempt hair and beard with dirt caked on him like a second skin made the prisoner think this man was only one bad day away from being in his position. That was a little frightening to think. What separated him from this man? He himself was often dirty and stunk, though of booze. Strange to see a reflection of the possibility of oneself. The soon to be dead man could only look over at him.

“Yeah. Loosen the knot and let me go.” He growled. He didn’t expect much, but the executioner actually looked at the warden who sat in a special high seat to get the best view of the action.

“His final request is to be let go! Do we?!” The man inquired in all seriousness and the warden frustratingly rubbed his greasy forehead before replying.

“No! Of course not!” He yelled back. He was still audible despite the sound of the crowd’s voice that was a chaotic choir of shouts, insults, and howls for him to drop. The smelly man gave him a thwap on the back of his head.

It was worth a shot, and the condemned could only roll his eyes and bob his head in understanding. That was it then. This was going to happen. He took one last look at the sky. It was cloudless and the sun was particularly bright. A warm summer day whose heat brought on more sweat than the fear of his own approaching end. As much as that should be the least of his concern he did not like the idea of dying in such weather. A breezy, mild day in Autumn would have been much more pleasant. At the very least die in some comfort. But that was a luxury a murderer can’t afford. Though he should be glad this is the worst way he was going to die. He had heard the stories of the medieval era when people were executed in the most gruesome ways imaginable. Between being burned at the stake, or drawn and quartered, or skinned alive, the prospect of being strangled to death wasn’t so bad. At least we’ve grown past such grotesque ways of dealing with criminals.

At that moment the cyclops stepped back and wrapped his hand around the lever, holding it with gleeful anticipation. He looked at the warden, waiting for the order to be given. The rabble’s voice grew as they saw the show was about to begin. Their bloodlust was soon fed when the rotund man in the nosebleeds waved his hand and the switch was pulled.

With a sickening crunch, the gears jerked and the trapdoor they were attached to gave way. The ground disappearing beneath him caught him off guard despite anticipating it the entire time and he felt weightless for that brief second, hoping one last time that his neck would snap. The flood of disappointment washed over him like a tsunami when he still felt conscious after the massive yank caught him on his way down. His throat was immediately squeezed and his breathing stopped. His death would now have to last a few minutes, and he instinctively began to pull at the ropes around his hands and feet. He could hear the sudden roar from the crowd as they got exactly what they wanted. This made him stop struggling as a last want of defiance hit him. He knew there was no way out of his bindings, so why fight it. He decided instead he would just hang there calmly, waiting for everything to go dark. A final spit in the face to everybody.

He spent the time instead thinking about how he had ended up here. He wasn’t an innocent man. He wasn’t falsely accused and wrongfully imprisoned. He did in fact commit murder. And it wasn’t in self-defense. He started the fight. He deserved every blow he took from the man whose life he stole. Another one of his many drunken rages. Whiskey was too much of a comfort for him. But when it was one of the main ways he was paid for his services, it was easy to indulge in it. Even the money he made he spent too much on more. After a day at the docks, he would often hit the local pubs or burlesque houses. Liquor was a food group for him, and he spent more time in these places than he did at his home. Not that anybody was missing him there. He lived alone. Though he had asked many a showgirl or prostitute to marry him during his benders. That often triggered the fights he got in. When he would press a no with physical advances, pleading for them to accept. There was always somebody there to stand up for them and pull him away. That was when he would throw the first swing.

His last fight was no different. Another rejection met with another attempt of pleading his case to the girl who probably got proposals from multiple men a day. That evening he had drunk more than usual and was in a particularly foul mood to begin with. His day at the docks was a rough one and he caught lip from one of the bosses. So, his time at the cathouse was one with an already teetering temper. The girl was particularly beautiful too. She was a newer face, and he thought perhaps that would give him a shot. Surely he’d be one of the first to profess their love for her and she would be smitten. He was as polite as one could be when he first popped the question. But as usual she laughed it off and attributed his behavior to the bottle he had halfway downed by then.

However, his already soured attitude from the workday before left him not accepting no for an answer and he pressed again, still trying to be pleasant. But when the man’s hand removed his from the girl’s dress something in him snapped and he exploded in a rage. He wasn’t having it. His chances weren’t about to be ruined this time.

The fist impacted the good Samaritan square in the jaw and he stumbled back. He thought that blow would end the fight before it even started and he turned back to the woman. But then he took a shot himself to his right side and as he reeled from the pain he realized what hit him. The man was still standing and looked ready for a scrap. So, he gave him one. They exchanged blows for a few brief moments, chairs and tables getting destroyed or knocked over in the process. Glasses and bottles spilled all over the floor and their wonderful contents laid flooded and wasted along the ground. This only fueled his rage, and he went further than he ever had before.

He brought the fight to a fatal end with the very thing that had gotten him to this stage. The crack across the man’s skull left the bottle shattered and a mix of whiskey and blood now puddled around the head of the protector as he was splayed on the floor, motionless. Catching his breath he hadn’t realized what he had done. He thought he simply won the fight. But when the audience inspected the man and pronounced him dead, his inebriation ended with a realization of the trouble he was now in. He tried to run but was quickly tackled by the crowd and held until the police showed to place him under arrest.

The trial lasted but a day. He had no defense. The whole thing was only done for the prosperity of this idea that everyone gets a fair trial. But he already knew he was a dead man. The gavel slammed the desk and the sentence to hanging was given, as he expected. The following week in prison before his execution was a lonely one. No family or friends to speak of, and his fellow employees wouldn’t want to associate with a killer. Though the thing he missed the most was the booze. He would’ve killed again just for another drink at so many times. And now, he hung there, the life fading from him.

He had a final moment of contemplation as he wondered where he was going after he crossed to the other side. He wasn’t a religious man. He didn’t care for the idea of the teachings in the good book. It was all nonsense to him. He only cared about getting Christmas and Easter bonuses during their respective times of year. And now he had an overwhelming dread about waking up before the devil himself. What if there was a heaven and a hell? He had done nothing his whole life to grant him a seat upstairs and the circumstances of his death definitely earned him a one-way ticket down. Funny how facing one’s own end can change their entire outlook. He had but a minute left of life and in that minute he would have to make peace with whatever force there was that governed the universe. He made a silent prayer to a god he wasn’t sure existed. But in his heart he knew that even if there was one, there would be no forgiveness for him.

As his mind started to fade and the searing pain in his lungs grew as they both screamed for oxygen, he could only hope it was all nonsense as he believed. The rising agony quickly became unbearable, and he couldn’t hang limp willingly anymore. The urge to survive finally kicked in and he began to struggle for the final moment of his life. He really hoped there was nothing on the other side. He didn’t want to suffer in hell. As everything went black he would soon have his answer. s answer.