The Warden

by Buffalo

"Time..." said the guard, "What is it, really? Why, it's man's self created anarchist, nothing more. Hey, you ever notice how time drags when you're nervous or anxious?" "God damn it," Mark exploded. "Shut up! Get the hell out of my face!" "Okay, okay, don't get mad. I'm going." Mark turned sharply about, just as sharp as the crease in his blue officer pants. He looked up and noticed the guard peer over his shoulder and smile, knowing that he had made his rib good. "Sonuvabitch," Mark mumbled under his breath. "They ought to put *him* in the friggin' chair. Love to watch him squirm when they pull the switch and see his eyes bulge. Huh, not a chance." He shook a cigarette from the pack, but his shaky hands refused to co-ordinate the match to the tobacco. Mark's impatience made him steal a glance at the clock on the wall. 11:41 PM, only nineteen minutes left. Nineteen more minutes left of a human life, then the switch would drop, and... How would he walk down the hallway, he wondered. Cool and calm? Screaming and kicking, still saying he was innocent? At 11:52, when they would come, then he would know. Little voices in his head talked, "Time, the anarchist. Time, time, time." "Christ, why me?" he cried out. Look at me, he thought, forty-two years old and already I'm a wreck. Five years, five long years in the rotting prison, with each day longer than yesterday. Oh, but today, today, you bitch, you're all of forty-two years, only slower, much slower. Once again, a fruitless eyeing of the round-faced anarchist on the wall. 11:48 PM. Four more minutes; then... Nervously he dried his sweaty palms on his pants as he stood up. Slowly, almost carefully, Mark walked over to the window and stared out through the bars at the city lights in the distance. "Ahem." Mark spun around at the alien sound, finding himself facing the prison chaplain. "Well, well, it's the sky pilot." "Mark, don't take it so hard," the man in black said. "Oh sure, you can say that, your soul is already saved. But me... it's murder." "No, not a murderer, Mark; just a man, just as I am a man." "Shut up. Padre," Mark snapped. "It's time. Let's go," the guard interrupted, adding, "we can't keep death waiting." He cackled to himself as he left. "Shut up, you God damn bastard." "My son," the minister soothed, "we must go..." Feeling defeat, knowing that he couldn't stall, Mark nodded. Gingerly he put on his old tweed coat, brushed back his sparse hair, straightened his wire glasses and said, "Can't cheat death, I guess." Together he and the Padre walked to the door. There it was... the chair. Sweat formed under Mark's arm in dark splotches as he neared the room. He was cool and calm; the minister was praying in a mumbled voice. Mark looked at him and felt empty. Frank was waiting for him in the room. "Good-bye, Frank." "Good-bye, Mark." Frank was the only person who Mark could communicate with. A knot formed in his stomach as he rushed to the bathroom. "Huh, some warden, can't stand to see a man fry," the guard noted, speaking to nobody in particular as he strapped convict Frank Summers, prisoner No. 74324, into the electric chair. PREVIOUS | TABLE OF CONTENTS | NEXT