The Last Room
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, violence, rape, psychological triggers, death.
Word count: 3200
Description: You're in a room with one other person. How did you get there and why?
A/N: Tried something new. I don't want to spoil it though, so read it for yourself! Original idea was about six people in the same room. Darker than the stuff I usually write. Originally conceived in 2009, was backburnered, picked up again in 2010 and edited several times.
The Last Room
I sit here. Wait for the end. The room is bare, white, clean, pure, which is what they're hoping I will become by the end of this day. Fat chance. The warden watches me with narrowed eyes as if expecting me to make some insane move, but what can I do? I'm chained up. They're afraid of what I can do, but they can't do anything about what my thoughts conjures up They say the power of the mind is greater than anything else, and if the mind is what got me to where I am not, not going to argue with that. People call me the Black Seraph. That's just like society, giving a name to things that don't even need a name. They just love to dramatize something plain and simple. Let's just say this: I live to kill.
I stand here. Why did I get this job? It makes me sick. I hate it. The room's not much help either, since it's a reminder of how bleak the end of the road is. It smells like medicine, and I've been around enough of that, too. I watch the one they call the Black Seraph, and a wave of disgust washes over me. Still, I tell myself that this is just the everyday regular job that I have to do. Once it's over, I can go home. The only thing that keeps me going is that watching criminals receive justice is just addicting.
I see people. See them in a way they can't see themselves. Flesh and blood, that's what we are. Souls? What a joke. Just a way to make humans feel better about dying. We're all just self-serving idiots who only offer help when we have some benefit from it. There are no good Samaritans, at least in this society. Perhaps in a dream world, but who can ever find those? Love? Just a chemical reaction. I've had enough relationships to figure it all out. Men just use women. Use them, then throw them away like a used napkin once they're not sexy enough. Have to show them that they can't just treat us like that or we'll leave, either on our own or through the hand of another. I'll help those who can't get away on their own. End their lives, screw whether or not they go to Heaven; I don't believe in that sort of shit. Enough of that fancy bullshit about life being more than just living; I've seen it all, touched it all. Enjoy what you can, because life is short. I get more pleasure doing my work than bothering with insignificant worries about right or wrong. No inhibitions. I'll pick my targets carefully, observe their lives, and then see if they're worth saving. If they seem like just a few pushes could help them, I'll offer it. If not, they're mine to take home. That is my destiny. A conscience prevents me from joy, and if I'm only going to live for a certain amount of time, I'll do whatever I want. Laws set by society? What a joke. Old, rotten to the core politicians who seek to boost only their own careers or fight for their own gain. They rarely think of the long term effects of what they do, and the few that do are knocked down early, removed from office forcefully. So yeah. Me? Not going to live by their rules. They say that you are shaped by your environment, and maybe I have been. In college, I took a class in psychology, also criminal justice. Learned about what made a criminal. Oh, how naïve I was back then, to think I could escape the past. That's why I'm here now, right? Because I knew I reached the peak of my fame and it was time? Hah. Maybe I've been in prison so long that I can't even remember my true intentions anymore. Maybe I just imagined my childhood in an effort to try to understand serial killers because I was so earnest in learning. Yeah right. I'm not that stupid. What happened is exactly what happened back then. I don't regret anything.
She's an amazing example of what the perfect candidate for the death row should be. It took several years for the police to sort through all the false leads she planted, finally track her down, and good riddance. It was quite the shock, too, due to her position as a prominent womens' rights activist and head of a center for battered women. One would think that she'd try to help the women, but no. She murdered them. Her justification? That she was helping them escape from their husbands. Why target the women? It makes no sense. For someone with such high IQ, I don't see how she could have come to that sort of illogical conclusion. Why not just help them escape? What would have happened if the abolitionists had massacred the slaves instead of rescuing them? Nothing can justify going around killing randomly, even if you feel it's in your right. It'll disrupt society. If we all followed our base urges, there would be no order. Honestly. It's a good thing we have the death penalty since really, there are just people who should not be allowed to exist. Violence is not the answer to everything.
I scratch myself. Snort. Sing a little song. Be as unladylike as I can be. It's almost time for the last visit my family will have. Funny what the state thinks death row prisoners need right before they're about to be executed. Hah. Family? What family? Family by blood only. Even now, they think only of profit. My father wrote a stinking book about how he never could have imagined how I could do such a thing, since I had such a happy childhood. He put on this face of innocent ignorance, and the public, can you believe it, the public lapped it all up. Nimrods, all of them. And him. Manipulative prick. He acts like he did nothing, but he is the blame for everything. He's the reason why I saw the weakness in humanity. Well, I suppose I should thank him for opening my eyes to the hypocrisy of this world. It's thanks to him that I know I don't have to follow the rules.
I pity her family. They traveled by plane across country to bid her farewell, and she refuses to even look at them. They try to make conversation, her mother implores with her to look at her, but that prisoner? She ignores it all. It's as if her ears are plugged, or she has a random song playing in her head, which knowing her, probably is. It's a slap to their faces. Normally I don't feel any sympathy for visiting family members because seriously, they're related to criminals. They're tainted. It's different for the Black Seraph's family though. I read the book that killer's father wrote. It wrenched my heart; I could really feel Mr. Sampson's pain. He described how well he had brought the girl up, how she had seemed like such a promising child, and that her high IQ had always given him high hopes that she'd do something great for the world. I don't know if I'd have the courage to write such a memoir after all the publicity. It's truly a credit to his strength to be able to pull off such an amazing story. I don't blame it for becoming a bestseller.
Conversation is stilted, as it's always been. Was I always a sociopath? Are people really just born this way? "Where?" she says. "Where did you go wrong, Tanya?" My mother implores, wondering how I could have turned out this way. Is that really the only thing she can think of saying to me? The only thing? Goddamn, she's never going to change. She's worse than my father, yet my heart cracks a little. She's had a hard time in life, but I can't give in. She could have easily escaped, but she was too much of a coward. I know she's secretly disgusted with me. She always has been. Can't stand the fact that I was smarter than her. Jealous of the fact that I managed to forge my own way in a male-dominated world. She can't wait for me to be dead. She's normal, after all, as she always proudly proclaimed back in the day. Pop would hit her whenever he got drunk, and she'd suck it up, saying his job was stressful, that he needed an outlet. Then she'd spend all our grocery money to buy long sleeves to cover up her bruises. Do nothing for me when he attacked me though. I can't really blame her. People will always look out for themselves first. That doesn't change the way I feel about her though. When I look at her, I only think of how she might look sliced up, packaged like the other girls. After all, she put up with my father, abusive though he was, and never asked for help, no matter how bad it got. Is it any wonder why I can imagine her as one of my victims? Am I going crazy? Maybe. After all, there's that death row phenomenon that's been plastered all over the news recently. For some people, I can see it happening, but me? Never. Doesn't mean I won't take advantage of it and occasionally fake it though. My family stands, and my father shoots me one last derisive glare. The door shuts behind them, and with it, any lingering feelings. The moment of weakness is gone, and I'm back to my steely self. Emotions like that just lower me to their level, so good riddance.
I see Mrs. Sampson wiping her eyes as she leaves the room. She heads over to the waiting room with the rest of her family, where she can watch the execution, then collect the body. I look over at the prisoner and want to puke. There's not a single sign of remorse for her actions. She's had ten years to think about the crimes she's done, but she hasn't changed a bit since her first day at this place. She had to be kept in solitude most of the time because the other women were afraid of being in the same room as her due to her history. Waste of money for all the court processes the state had to go through while waiting for the final appeal.
I feel it. The anger that simmers underneath my cool facade, the anger that I had believed I had managed to bury over the years. Him. He stares at me through the glass, a smirk on his arrogant face. His eyes peel my jumpsuit off, and I feel his hot breath against my breast again. Why can't he let me die in peace? He just has to have that sick pleasure of haunting me, eh? Fine. I won't give him that pleasure. This is the way I chose to live, no regrets. Now. Just have to go through that last meal and then meet with a minister. Maybe I'll rile someone up while I'm at it, too. Gotta have that rush. The warden approaches me and asks what I'd like to have for my final meal, and it hits me. With a smirk, I answer, "Could I have human meat please? Always wanted to know before I died if it'd be as sweet as it's rumored to be."
I despise her. Eating her last "banquet." Finally. Means she'll be off my hands soon. This day is just really dragging on. Can you believe she asked for human meat? Said she wanted to see if it was really as sweet as they say it is before she died. A monster. The worst of them. I hit her. Hit her good with my stick. Cracked her hard, yeah. She fell from the chair and onto the ground with a satisfying thump. There's still a trickle of blood on her forehead since I refused to give her a band-aid. And would you believe it? All she did was look at me, eyes black, then smile. "Can't believe you really fell for that, old man," she said. Well, I simply muttered into my walkie-talkie to get her the oldest bread and gruel in the kitchen. Serves her right.
It's great to see how far I can push people's buttons, even now. The warden lost his temper when I asked for my last meal. He really can't control himself, and I wonder if I should file a complaint before I die. It'd be quite the riot if I made him lose his job. I finish eating quickly, since I have a simple meal. Gruel. Bread. Couldn't they at least provide some protein? I'm craving some meat, but since they denied me it, I'll have to think of the revenge. A wave of pleasure washes over me, producing a coma similar to what I would have received from good food. Light music, merry music plays in my head, the song that always floats around me right before I burst. I'm their savior, always their savior. I free the poor girls from their husbands and fathers, the ones who always beat them and rape them. The girls are too weak to escape on their own, so I do it for them. At first, the police always went after the relatives or just wrote it off, but the monster inside of me kept killing, and finally, they caught up to me. Monster. Did I really acknowledge that there is something wrong with me? As if. I'm one of the few sane people in this world.
The dishes are collected and taken to be washed. The minister is here for the last rites. I watch it with mild disinterest. There's no hope for someone like her. Still, I can't help but wonder if she just might change. If she could, there would be hope for the rest of our prisoners, and maybe we wouldn't need to have a death row penalty. Is it possible that I'm softening? Ugh. I've seen what they've done, so why am I feeling like this now? Is it because it has been pounded so much into our lives that there is so much value in human life that even for those who deserve to be in Inferno, there may be redemption for them still? Wait. Person? Really? Did I really just think of her as a human? She's not human. She can't be, not after everything she's done.
The minister's talking to me, but really, I'm not paying any attention. Why should I? It's not like God's ever
been something I was interested in. If I had been, probably wouldn't be where I am now. He blesses me, or tries to, but I completely ignore him, and he knows this. Still, he continues to go on and on about God's kingdom and life after death. Ten minutes. I'm forced to listen to him for a full ten minutes. Jesus. Just kill me already.
When the minister leaves, I shake my head. I see such a disappointed look on his face that I want to ask him why he thought he could even make a difference. He converses with me briefly, saying that for some, they realize that there is salvation, but for this one? She refuses to believe in it. All I can do is tell him there's nothing I can do to change the prisoner's mind. The minister shakes my hand and thanks me anyway. "All in a day's work," he tells me.
I am led to the last room, my final view of this world. A curtain blocks me from seeing all the medical equipment that's going to kill me, but it really doesn't matter that much to me. There are three technicians, one of which is the main doctor. He is gentle, and a part of me wonders what might have happened if I had had someone like that as my husband instead. Father? Any male figure in my life? As if.
It's time for the lethal injection. I can see it all happening in the other room adjacent to this one. A speaker connects the two rooms. Another IV line is attached to the one in there as a precaution in case it snaps. The Black Seraph is strapped to the gurney and asked if she has any last words to say. With a laugh, she responds with a short "No." She is asked if she understands what that means.
"Of course I understand,” I say. "But why the hell would I care?"
I watch through the window as the doctor shrugs. He's been through this so many times that he's no longer affected by the prisoner he's about to execute, which is more than what I can say. The equipment is sterilized, sadly, and although I know it's also for the safety of the personnel, I want the Black Seraph to feel the pain that she's inflicted on others. So what if she killed quickly and painlessly. She killed people with families, people who were loved! Shit. Shit. I've become too emotionally involved.
The swab of the cool alcohol on my bare arm brings back memories of my mother wiping my tears off my face, and I wonder what may have happened if I could have found it in myself to forgive her. To forgive my father. No. No. Never. Maybe it's because I'm this close to death that I'm weakening so much. A tool to turn back time, to see what might have been? Too late for that. This is my death. This is how I crafted it. It all boiled down to this. I'm the last victim, the final one in my plan. This is no different than what I did to the other women, and it's exactly as I hoped it'd be.
I signal to the doctor to begin the injection. My eyes however are glued on the heart monitor; I want to know when this bitch dies.
All sounds are blocked out, and I close my eyes. Here it comes, my masterpiece. This is it, this is the end. Criminal, victim, we're all fucked in the end.
The line on the screen flattens. Confirmation is done, and a coroner signs the death certificate. The prisoner's expression is peaceful, and a part of me wonders how she got to where she is now. If I were to think the way she did, could my path in life also have taken the turn hers did? Can't be. I wouldn't do that sort of thing. I'm not insane. I turn away. I don't need to pay attention to what's going on now anymore. Just need to do my routine business, then check out. This is done quite quickly, and I'm soon in my car driving home. Time to return to the monotony that I've gotten used to. The adrenaline rush I received earlier is slowly seeping away. It won't be for another month or so before we have our next execution, and already, I'm craving it. God. No wonder why I keep coming back. Soon I pull to a stop in front of my home and get out. The door slams behind me. Now to make dinner and watch some TV. Glad this day is finally over.