Fiction

July

An Eye for an Eye

Thomas Dean

For the last seven years, he had been waiting, sometimes dreaming of this moment. The room was small. It couldn’t have been much bigger than the other cells throughout the federal prison. Stan Hansen took a front row seat, expecting a bone-chilling view of the chair, but the room was shrouded in darkness. He imagined the chair, each strap, brace, and constraint. A man’s last breath would escape from that chair.

Robert Simmons sat, head bent, chin thrust against his chest. A Catholic priest droned on, reading his last rites. He wanted to lunge forward and scream in the old man’s face. After seven years of waiting, he couldn’t believe his life was going to end.

He decided who lived and who died. He killed some people. Each one had been unworthy of the air that had sustained them. Now he had no control. They shaved his head. They took his possessions, carting them away in black trash bags.

The priest looked up from his Bible. “Son, do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, you believe in that business?” Simmons asked.

“I’m afraid I do,” the Priest said. His hands steepled. “I also believe in forgiveness. I hope God can find a way to forgive you.”

The priest left with a flurry of ruffling fabric. Simmons watched as the priest was replaced by more guards, shackles in hand.

Stan sat, head bent, chin thrust against his chest, tears falling down his cheeks. Every breath brought more pain: years of hate and sorrow. His wife’s murder pushed him toward this moment. The execution of Robert Simmons drove him to continue a life he no longer cared for.

A flurry of laughter bounced around the small room, as two reporters walked through the door. Stan tried to ignore them, knowing these were men who weren’t used to going unnoticed. He glanced over his shoulder and locked eyes with one of the reporters. With nods and smiles, the men walked over as if they had been offered an open invitation. Their smiles, growing larger with each step, approached the limit of elasticity of human skin. Reaching Stan, they pushed a pair of bulky tape recorders into his face, so close he could see the tear drops hitting the metal casings of the recorders.

“Sir, are you a member of the victim’s family? Why are you here? Do you know Robert Simmons?” the reporters asked in rapid succession.

Stan didn’t bother to look up. “No Comment.”

The men just shrugged in unison, and before Stan could object, they sat on either side of him, taking up what little free space Stan had before they arrived.

Robert Simmons sat in the last of a succession of cells. Thy promised a ten minute wait. Years no longer mattered; his life was down to a few ticks of the clock.

“Robert Simmons.” The Warden took a deep breath. “It’s time.”

The guards latched their bulging arms around his neck. He looked back. He was met by the same stone wall. For the last seven years nothing had changed. It was always there.

The weight of the impending execution layered upon Stan’s body like the piling of dirt upon a freshly dug grave. The furtive glances at his watch started when he realized the reporters weren’t going to leave. With every shift of the men’s body weight on the already too small chairs, he wondered how long it would take for the men to fall into his lap.

The seconds passed; the air heavy like walking through fog.

It was as if he were back in time, once again in the emergency room holding his wife’s lifeless hand, wishing she would breathe again.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell these two jerk-offs to just leave, go chase some ambulances or something. He honestly didn’t care, but oh God, just leave him alone.

Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, a strobe of light forced its way out of the execution room. The few people talking abruptly ended their conversations. All eyes were set upon the door leading into the execution room. Stan could hear a low hum.

With a bang, the door opened. Guards filled the room in pairs, splitting off to either side of the room. A lone guard trickled through the narrow doorway. Stan felt a sudden, intense feeling of fear that seemed to be stabbing him in his chest. For an instant, he thought the bastard had managed to commit suicide, denying Stan the satisfaction of watching him die. Stan was about to scream out in despair, when Robert Simmons, flanked by the largest of the guards, entered the room. For the first time in years, he was staring at the object of his hate.

The guards placed Simmons in the chair. With precision, they unlocked the shackles, replacing them with the other braces and constraints hanging from the arms and legs of the chair.

The warden came into view from off to the right and peered into the viewing room. He wiped his brow with a white cloth before turning back to face Robert Simmons.

“Robert Simmons. You have been judged by a jury of your peers to be condemned to die for your crimes. Do you have any final words at this time?” the Warden asked.

The seconds passed into minutes. Stan sat on the edge of his seat, the air growing static.

“If any harm follows, then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe,” Simmons said.

Stan searched Simmons’s eye, hoping for some kind of emotion, but all he found was emptiness. The action that took place next was something that Stan couldn’t have foreseen no matter how many nights he fell asleep dreaming of this moment. It was beyond the human imagination.

The warden went back to the area off to the right. Stan lowered his head, bracing himself for what he was about to witness. The dissonant sound of metal striking metal filled the air, as the kill switch was pulled down. The electricity hit Simmons’s body.

As if he were a puppet, acting on the pull of a string, Simmons’s head bounced up and down.

Stan felt the pulse. It started in his extremities; his fingers and toes tingling. He tried to look away, almost begged out loud to be able to look away, but his eyes wouldn’t run from the sight of Simmons dying before him. Time slowed. He gaped at Simmons’s contorted face.

Simmons’s face began to dissipate until Stan didn’t see it at all, but rather his own face: it was as if he was looking in a mirror. Robert Simmons no longer existed. Looking past his childhood memories, Stan realized the execution was no longer about Simmons. In fact, it never was.

Stan’s body started to jerk and wither against the constraints. All the hate and pain that he had been holding, slowly bottling under pressure finally exploded as they cut the electricity.

His head felt heavy. The lights were dimmer. His eyes lids fluttered up and down, as he fought to remain conscious. A single thought seemed to be the only thing keeping him from surrendering to the darkness. If any harm follows, then you shall give life for life.