The Wait

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January 8th 2013  |  3  |  Category: Fiction  |  Author: Derek  |  779 views

A tray of food sits untouched on the floor, her stomach knotted and gnarled, unable to eat.
Her throat dry, accepting no relief from the water she drinks, her hands shaking in an in controllable spastic tremor.
Her eyes reddened from hours, days of weeping, her self pity pathetic.
You could feel sorry for her without knowing her story.
The clock outside competing with the noise of her beating heart.
Her chest echoes, empty.
The same heart that loudly pounded with an schizophrenic abandon in her frenzied times.
Her absorption incapable of empathy, nor compassion.
For so long she satisfied herself and justified her actions with the ease and pride of catching a fly.
She was one of those not content to let it die quickly, rather, a fascination with cruelty for her own pleasure, pulling at its wings until they ripped from the insect, leaving it at her mercy.
She doesn’t notice the swarm in the cell, attracted by the putrid lavatory and the air of death that not only followed her, but now hung over her.
The cell was small, clinical, serving the bare minimum of purpose.
The well worn bed on which she sat, had been the final conscious resting place of those whom had done worse, some less, but all as shocking as each other.
It’s all about degrees but the outcome never changed.
She scuffed her toe back and forth, keeping time with something, maybe a thought, maybe a song that played over and over, a distraction.
The smooth concrete floor had rubbed the skin to the point of bleeding.
She seems oblivious to the pain, just as she was to the pain she inflicted upon others.
A stainless steal mirror hung above a hand basin with one single tap.
The mirror carried the calling cards of etched signatures and in the centre, where you would normally look at your reflection, the words “fuck you” were
scratched angrily by a previous occupant.
Her pants were drenched in urine, she lost control and ability to even be concerned about hygiene days before.
She sat in her stench as if it were normal.
Normal to her was a clear confusion of the ugliest urges, her mind awash with thoughts that would sicken the hardest soul.
She cried tears of remorse, not for her victims, remorse that it was all over, that her complacency overtook her care and concealment.
She lived an arrogance that would become her undoing.
Outside the cell, she heard the yells and mutterings of faceless neighbours. It grated her like the sound of nails down a black board, a shiver seemed to occupy her spine.
It caused her to scream abuse, hoping to make it stop but it only served to humour the other prisoners, their laughter haunting and teasing her.
They were all in the same predicament, the eminency of her destiny sooner than theirs, they too would be in her position.

The waiting was the most painful part. A parallel symphony played didactically in her head, wishing for the time to arrive but knowing each second that passed was a second less of her life.
All hope extinguished as her options diminished, after four years, she was quickly running out of time.
This moment was not allowed a thought, relying on false hope, a withered and brutal hand clasping at straws.
She enters her last half hour and she can her the prison guards pacing and preparing to take her to her own chamber of terror.
Not once has she felt any sympathy for those she killed.
Any thoughts of them created nothing but excitement and a sexual tension within her, self gratification her only concern.
She was portrayed as an animal in the media prior to her arrest and the face of all that was disturbing since.
The activity behind the heavy metal door intensifies and she knows it’s nearly time.
Her weeping becomes louder, awakening again the cat calls and taunts from the others.
They laugh at her misery because it distracts them from theirs, if only for a while.
The keys fumble their way in and a morbid clang releases the locks, she sits, her shoulders shrugging as the bold door swings open.
Six guards, two men and four women enter and two of the four women walk towards her.
There’s no pleasure on their faces, nor displeasure, they show no emotion at all.
She can hear a muffled conversation, buried beneath the heart beat in her ears, they are commenting on the piss saturated overalls she’s wearing.
This was nothing new to them, in fact, the surgical gloves they wear are a fair indicator that this was often the case.
They stand one each side, helping her to her feet and they start the process of applying the chains to her body.
One around her waist, two more connecting her wrists to her waist and finally, they place another to her ankles, just enough to allow her to walk in a palsied shuffle.
She smells as disgusting as she looks, they can’t believe this is the same demon that walked in, full of bravado, four years earlier.
Once again, they’d seen it all before, the recalcitrance and smugness as they rest upon their legacy.
They knew it would come to this, it gave them satisfaction initially but now, their ability to be empathetic separated them from creatures like her.
They pull her to the door, not roughly but persuasively as her sobbing and weakness overwhelms her.
The corridor echoes screams, whistles and the banging of fists on doors as she enters, a ritual of sorts.
Her heads falls back, her face wet with sweat and tears, she’s walking towards hell and she knows it.


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3 Responses to The Wait

  1. Sam Cuch says:

    Huh… I’m left with the notion that there is more to this. But as I re-read the title I’m disappointed that there is not. The notion of waiting to me has to have a conclusion to the waiting. She is in prison, waiting for what? The end of her life I figure. There is no pleasure in killing something that wants to die. Just a suggestion, This story need to build to something, even the ending you have is ok. But the reader needs to feel justified to being put through the torment of the tormented. Thanks for the story, keep it up.

  2. Derek says:

    Thanks for the feedback, this story is neither the beginning nor the end. It’s written as it came to my head. I’m not a writer, I don’t pretend nor profess to be, I just empty my mind. Thanks again

  3. Sam Cuch says:

    Huh? Oddly that makes some sense. Thanks for the reply.

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