Boogeyman

It's still too dark to see. That doesn't mean much though, since it's always dark down here.  The eerie part is the almost complete lack of sound.  Not even the shuffling of feet or the buzzing of a fly; only the desperate attempts of my ears to find something to latch onto.  I'm not even sure how long I've been laying here, waiting.  Waiting for something to finally happen.  For someone to come and deliver me from this negation of experience; I knew what awaited me when the events did fall into place: Retribution. I may not deserve the punishment handed down by worms in men's clothing, but I most of all do not deserve a silent slipping away, fading unnoticed into the shadows, without so much as a smug grin from a father who thinks he does justice to his daughter's memory by watching me die. No, that isn't my fate; this isn't the path I crafted for myself. My path is beset on all sides by men who have forgotten the meaning of the word.  They prefer the complacent life of livestock than the creative conqueror, who shapes the world to his will.  They will come for me soon enough.

The door slammed open, spilling light into the room, cutting it in half.  Disoriented, I shook myself awake.

"So, is it time?" I asked with a smile on my face to the guard obscured by the light.  I think I unsettled him, as is the case for most of these men-in-name-only . He said nothing  but gruffly pulled me to my feet and latched my hands together, shoving me out the door.  So begins my final march. I walked with my head high, presenting myself properly to my subjects on either side. Though they are locked in shadows as I was moments ago, with no view of escape, I am sure they could sense my presence.  The sound of my steps echoed through the hall, with a proud and purposeful step, rather than the reluctant, hesitant steps of a man who has been surprised by his fate. No, it was clear that I was walking entirely where I intended. I was leading the guards to witness the birth of a legend in the death of a child. Or perhaps not a child.  I can't even remember what day it is.  My birthday may have come and gone unnoticed, much like all these other  prisoners awaiting their escape.  Though, there's only  one way out in this wing, and that's through the needle. We all know it, but they're afraid of it.  It isn't the fear that separates them from me; its the capitulation.  These worms let the guards have power over them, when the guards are simply the manifestation of an order from someone with actual power. I refuse to bend to lesser men and only when I meet the resistance of true power am I faced with a loss of control over my fate; these men are not the ones taking my life.  They may push the plunger, but the poison isn't put there without a great man's consent.  It could have been me, perhaps, in different circumstances.

The long migration ended at a metal door, slowly opened by the dead-eyed guard.  I was carelessly shoved onto the sterile and cold table.  The light overhead emulated the heat of the sun, or maybe it wasn't so strong. It's been a long time since I've seen the Sun.  There were other marionettes of men in the room with me, blessed enough to be a part of something much bigger than their sad lives.  I didn't recognize any of them, but that's because of their forgettable faces, no doubt.  There is a priest in the corner, obviously wishing he was somewhere else.  I wonder what you have to mess up to get tasked with reading the last rites to  the condemned. The restraints tightened around my arms, involuntarily clammy.

"I'm not afraid" I mutter to myself, trying to regain my composure.

The guard just looks at me, contempt or perhaps even jealousy in his eyes but says nothing.  The priest is muttering his holy-charged words, avoiding eye contact.  He was a young priest. Couldn't be much older than me. Poor bastard.

"Do you have anything you want to say?" asks a gruff voice from behind me.

I look at the glass, the scene behind it obscured by the light in my eyes, weighing my words.

"Unlike your kids, I'll never be forgotten"

I couldn't hear anything behind the glass but I saw the commotion of men running to the glass in the corner of the window.  Smiling, I turn away and look at the white tiled ceiling, holding my breath.




The young priest turned away from the obviously unconscious prisoner, asking the guard by the door "What did he mean about the kids?"

The guard scoffed and grimaced as he answered "That psychopath shot up an elementary school and took an entire third grade class out.  Let himself get caught too. Cops just found him sitting in the front of the flag pole with a stupid grin on his face"

The priest shook his head, stunned.  This boy couldn't have been older than 18 and unfortunately he was right.  Though people will forget the names of the children he killed, his name will get echoed throughout the days to come, a veritable boogeyman.