Lethal Injection

By: Passionworks

My delicate hands firmly grip a comb that teases my sunshine blonde hair. I have no knots of course, being that I could not sleep at all. Didn't have a chance to.

This would be the last time I would ever gaze upon the walls of this cell. It is a deadbeat gray that surrounds me, but quite lively when a convict takes that long walk.

Conversation eagerly buzzes in my ear. It is almost like a community here; everybody knows what horrible things you do to get your ass stuck at Lorton.

To think that this chatter would soon be for me is quite a compliment. I always adored attention, never caring if it was for the wrong reason. But it also brings a chill down my bony spine. Not that I had a problem with dying; it's considerably noble to die for your passions, but the thrill of the chase would cease to invigorate me with adrenaline.

I always was a wild child. I cared for conquer, seeing that I was the only woman in my division of the Secret Service. Dominating the male gender was quite an astonishing feat.

But that was not the highlight of my existence, never was. Greatness is achieved through intimate accomplishments. How the mind races when a bullet pierces a heart, a knife stabs a back. The spillage of blood is a token of achievement as it darkens the earth, drying in death.

Front-page news, the letters of my name in ink, lips that speak of me. Trophies well earned.

I rest the comb on top of my perfectly made bed. I had cleared away the wrinkles as if they were all the mistakes of my life; folded over and left for another. Manipulation is one of my qualities, trickery a second. Humorous it is to watch the psychotic cases unravel.

Only one could end it for me, cut off the blood supply to my feet to keep me from running.

Just a simple black man in a racist world. A mind reader, it seems.

Oh, as much as I loved him then, I hate him now…

To my right, I hear the jingling of metallic keys, Satan's erotic whispers breathing down my neck…

………

My eyes see nothing but the ceiling. An unidentifiable color of yellow or gray swirls in my eyes of ocean blue. The hue is like a foreign object clouding my view.

Perhaps this is fear that I feel, unmistakably odd images that hold no definitive answer. As far as I can tell, this emotion is a newborn one. I prided myself on thrill rather than fright, seems appropriate enough, though.

Execution: the finality of life, the passage of a spirit, the last breath. They only happen once, perhaps this fear will be the same way.

I pick up on the fact that protestors have gathered. Most of them are women, probably childless, considering their pitiful arguments.

Let her go, they cry out in vain. Let her live…

Is this more attention for me, or is this a senseless distraction? I don't really know how to sum up all the words. I have no children myself, nor do I have a maternal instinct…

But I will say that a part of me does regret the crimes. I feel like I deserve every bit of suffering. The best lesson is learned through punishing repetition. Death for death, they call it.

My eyes leave the ceiling to peer at the tiny windows. There are three of them and the blue curtains are fully parted and open for the onlookers. The first two are cluttered with faces and snapping cameras. I assume these windows are reserved for the press; I can almost feel my whole body being sucked into the eyes of their cameras as if they are black holes in the darkest recesses of space.

But the third is empty, except for one…

The Black Knight, a hero in a child's fairytale. His dark eyes have a solemn appearance to them, perhaps because of the loneliness that surrounds us in a haze of heavy breaths.

In an instant, I feel my figure tense. Swift footsteps mark the entry of two technicians. One of them, a lanky red-haired male grasps a stainless-steel tray in his hands.

Did I just see him tremble? A trick of the light, I assume. He is used to doing this sort of thing, I'm sure.

My left arm stretches onto a makeshift table. My ears hear the sounds of infantile bickering and my eyes take in all these contraptions that may initiate my demise: lengthy plastic tubes, liquid drugs, and a sharp needle. I perk up at its sudden entry into my skin. I admit that I do understand much of the death process; I've studied up on just about anything. Perfectionism and knowledge are ample and abundant if you know where to look. These things are just intravenous drips, saline solution being the first.

I feel a bit groggy; maybe I'm mentally reacting.

The warden, a hunky, big-boned man, nods his chubby head and a barbiturate is added. I don't much recall its formal name, but thinking is of little use to me now. Pavulon is next, quite a heavy dosage, indeed.

Before the last dosage is administered, I smile at the seemingly empty window. Alex Cross' face shows no obvious emotion as I offer him a little wave goodbye.

See you in hell, I want to shout in his face, but dignity and composure keep me down as the potassium chloride enters my system.

My last memory is passionate: the love Alex and I shared the day he brutally turned on me, sent me to an earthly hellhole. I remember the last kiss, the last touch, the last look in his eyes. But slumber takes over me as my eyelids fall. I question my own existence, if my heart has stopped.

An answer relieves me, a tug at my tongue like a rope that drags me into defeat.

The world goes black and I am not afraid. I face the red fire in front of me as it licks my mortal skin.

But nothing matters to me now…

Life is life.

And this is death, and it is beautiful…