A Heavy Heart
Awakened by his own thoughts, he sat up and gazed out the window down the hall. It was the screaming that always woke him. He heard it all the time, he's the only one who ever heard it. It must have been 5:30am, nearly time for breakfast. He felt tightness in his chest as he walked over to the sink to wash his face and prepare himself for the day. The cool water beaded off of his face and for a moment he had almost forgotten. It must be 5:30am. He raised the plastic comb, about to run it through his thinning, grey hair, and realized he didn't have to - the hair was gone. As he placed the comb back by the sink, he eyed the fresh set of clothes neatly folded by his bed. Suddenly, his eyes started to blur, and his heart began to pound, as though it would beat right through his chest. Gasping, he stumbled towards the bed and collapsed onto the thin mattress. He must have fallen asleep again while he listened to the drumming of his pulse and the air wheezing into his heavy lungs.
Awakened again, this time by the smell of bacon, he slowly sat up. His mind was a pea soup, his chest was still tight but it had been years since he had seen or even smelled bacon. Just as he was about to take his first bite, he was interrupted by a guard. It was time to go.
"Prisoner number 132, come forward," the guard commanded gruffly.
The man's face seemed cold and oddly clammy then. His arms felt heavy and numb as he put aside his food tray and pushed himself up from the bed. Now chained, he continued to follow the guard down the hallway and through the next gate. As he shuffled along, a lump formed in his throat which he couldn't manage to swallow back down. They stopped at an ordinary looking white door. A plain white door, in this plain white hall. The only sound was his shallow breathing, and he swallowed deeply again.
The guard opened the door and unchained the man, and the man sat down in the chair. Commands weren't necessary, there was, after all, only one chair. The guard strapped him in and told him to wait for the officers.
Through bleary eyes, he could see there was a window in front of him. Through the window was the viewing room. There must have been fifteen seats or more, and not a soul in any of them. It had been twenty years and there was still no one there to see. Three officers entered the room. One officer began to speak. The words were muffled and droning. The second officer was behind him. He felt the water from the sponge before the sponge itself, as the second officer strapped the sponge and helmet onto his shaved head. The third officer had disappeared behind him as well. He must be in charge of the switch. His breathing began to shallow further, his chest seemed too heavy to receive the air. He couldn't swallow. Sweat was pouring down his neck, his back. Cold rivers over his shuddering body. The shaking wouldn't stop. He licked his dry lips. His hands hurt from his white knuckled grip on the chair arms. He couldn't breathe. The muffled voice had stopped. They were waiting. Waiting for a response from him. He couldn't speak, couldn't move. The world shifted, and time seemed to stop. This was how it felt that night twenty years ago. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. But he could hear the screaming. They say he killed her, but he couldn't move. The difference now was instead of a woman's scream, he could hear a man's voice. He took a final gasp of air and the room went dark. Just as the third guard was about to pull the handle, he noticed that the man has now slumped down- his eyes seemed vacated. "Prisoner 132"?
Awakened again, this time by the smell of bacon, he slowly sat up. His mind was a pea soup, his chest was still tight but it had been years since he had seen or even smelled bacon. Just as he was about to take his first bite, he was interrupted by a guard. It was time to go.
"Prisoner number 132, come forward," the guard commanded gruffly.
The man's face seemed cold and oddly clammy then. His arms felt heavy and numb as he put aside his food tray and pushed himself up from the bed. Now chained, he continued to follow the guard down the hallway and through the next gate. As he shuffled along, a lump formed in his throat which he couldn't manage to swallow back down. They stopped at an ordinary looking white door. A plain white door, in this plain white hall. The only sound was his shallow breathing, and he swallowed deeply again.
The guard opened the door and unchained the man, and the man sat down in the chair. Commands weren't necessary, there was, after all, only one chair. The guard strapped him in and told him to wait for the officers.
Through bleary eyes, he could see there was a window in front of him. Through the window was the viewing room. There must have been fifteen seats or more, and not a soul in any of them. It had been twenty years and there was still no one there to see. Three officers entered the room. One officer began to speak. The words were muffled and droning. The second officer was behind him. He felt the water from the sponge before the sponge itself, as the second officer strapped the sponge and helmet onto his shaved head. The third officer had disappeared behind him as well. He must be in charge of the switch. His breathing began to shallow further, his chest seemed too heavy to receive the air. He couldn't swallow. Sweat was pouring down his neck, his back. Cold rivers over his shuddering body. The shaking wouldn't stop. He licked his dry lips. His hands hurt from his white knuckled grip on the chair arms. He couldn't breathe. The muffled voice had stopped. They were waiting. Waiting for a response from him. He couldn't speak, couldn't move. The world shifted, and time seemed to stop. This was how it felt that night twenty years ago. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. But he could hear the screaming. They say he killed her, but he couldn't move. The difference now was instead of a woman's scream, he could hear a man's voice. He took a final gasp of air and the room went dark. Just as the third guard was about to pull the handle, he noticed that the man has now slumped down- his eyes seemed vacated. "Prisoner 132"?
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