Tragedy's Gift (Short Story Collection)

Final Moments

He paced around the small cell like a caged tiger, back and forth between the cot and the far wall. The cell was small, so he crossed it in three steps before spinning on his heel and continuing on in the other direction. Occasionally, he'd stop at the lumpy cot, lift up a leg, and drop his foot on its surface. He'd lean there, one arm across his upraised knee, his other running through his hair, rubbing his temples, pressing against his eyes. Then he'd jerk away and resume his agitated pacing.

In less than an hour, he was going to die.

Execution, they had told him. At 1600 hours, April 17, 2010. He knew the date by heart. Right down to the last second of the last hour, he knew it so very well. After all, he'd been waiting seven months for this day.

During that whole time, it had been incredibly surreal. He'd somehow managed to push it to the back of the mind, purposefully ignoring it as days, weeks, months drew past and suddenly, it was down to the last week. The last day. Today.

No longer could he ignore it.

He was good at ignoring things in general. His mind was brilliant, disciplined, imaginative; heck, he could make himself believe that he was a chicken with three wings, if he wanted to. These past seven months he'd lived in a little fantasy, thinking that it was all a mistake, that the guards would unlock his door and let him out, apologizing for the inconvenience. Then the last day came. And it all came crashing home, shattering that stupid little fantasy into a million shards of childish dreams.

Thirty-three minutes left, a little voice told him inside his head, courtesy of his perfect internal clock. It was something he trained for years to perfect, but now he cursed it to high heaven. Thanks, he growled inwardly.

He felt like throwing something. Pausing in front of the tiny sink in his cell, he placed both hands on its edges, and leaned forward. The thing used to be white; now it was gray, stained with dark layers of disgusting patches of dirt. The faucet was rusty. Water dripped from its end, a constant pitter-patter of impact against the porcelain fixture.

His grip tightened. He shouldn't be here.

There were a million other places he should be, doing a million different things, - great things – instead of being trapped in this hellhole. Trapped like a rat in a cage. A dead rat.

Shoving away from the sink, he stalked over to the bed. Grabbed the thin blanket, ripped it off the bed. He tried to fling it across the room, but it only flopped limply to the floor. It lay, a crumpled heap of scratchy material.

"Why now?" he muttered under his breath. "Why me, why now?" He swung his foot, kicking the blanket into the far corner of the room. Then he sank onto the cot, resting his head on trembling hands.

There were so many people in the world, but there was none like him. The only one of his kind, the only one brilliant and courageous enough to do what he did. The only one capable of performing the most masterful feats in the entire world – the kind of feats that went down in history.

Everyone knew of his name. They knew who he was, and when they spoke of him, they spoke with a kind of awe in their voices. He had done so much already. Yet, he could do so much more. So much more!

However, it was not to be.

Twenty-four minutes, his mind whispered. Fingers dug into his knees, and he let out an anguished moan. Not yet, he wasn't ready!

He gripped his head, thinking feverishly, struggling to find a crack, a hole, anything that might lead him out of this.

The guards were not stupid. They knew who he was, what he was capable of, and they would take every precaution necessary. This time, there was no escape.

No. . .no! There was still time, he would not give up! Springing to his feet, he began stalking about his cell once more. Sweat beaded upon his brow. A panicked desperation crept into his normally even stride, a tormented light gleamed in his eyes.

He couldn't go down just like this! There had to be a way, there had to be! His mind soared, going to limits it had never gone to before. All the knowledge he had discovered about human abilities, psychology and scientific formulas, all the major theories developed by brilliant minds, every little scrap of information he had learned during all his years flew through his mind. He gathered it in one place, jamming it together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

He saw things in ways he had never seen before. Ideas, crazy and impossible, spun before him like shining beacons of light. Eagerly, he grasped at them, only to let them slip away as he recognized that they would not work. There wasn't enough time, not enough materials to work with!

If he had started earlier, so much earlier, he might have had a chance. But he had been lost in his arrogant fantasy, his stupid, human assumption that such things as executions could not truly happen to ones like him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! He ranted, he raved, enraged at his own carelessness. His momma had always told him that his carelessness would be his downfall. And she was right.

Four minutes, his mind whispered.

Footsteps made their way down the cold, silent passageway to his cell. He could hear them, clapping against the concrete floor, growing ever louder as they neared.

His heart dropped in his chest. He stumbled, stepped backwards. No. No, this couldn't be! He scurried backwards until his back hit the far wall. His hands clawed at the cold wall on either side, horror filling his entire being.

No, he couldn't go now! He couldn't! He wasn't finished! There was so much more for him to do, if only he had the time!

A small group of prison guards stopped in front of his cell. Their leader, a short, portly man whose belly seemed to have outgrown his uniform, peered in at him.

"Mr. X. It's time."

"No," he gasped, pressing farther against the wall. His blood ran cold, his horror fading into shock. This was impossible....this couldn't be real! Suddenly weak, he sagged, sliding down the wall. No. . .oh God, no. . . .

The prison guard gestured; the others stepped in. Four steps brought them to the prisoner. Two of them grasped his arms, lifting him onto his feet.

The prisoner trembled, dread filling his expression. He met the eyes of the guard holding his left arm. The guard's blue gaze pitied him, yet the hardness underneath said that he thought the prisoner was getting what he deserved.

The prisoner sucked in a shuddering breath. Then he spoke to the guard with a terrified whisper:

"I don't want to go."