View Full Version : Acceptance (1,447(

September 22nd, 2016, 04:16 PM
My eyes snap open. The familiar brightness I dread lights the room; the darkness is the only place I feel comfortable. A small access panel in the door opens and my clothing for the day is fed through by a gloved hand before they hit the floor. The hand pulls back and the access panel is closed. I remove what Iím wearing Ėa wrinkled version of the pile on the floor. A basket, secured to the floor with precautionary foam around the rim, sits in the corner. Thatís where the previous dayís clothes get tossed. An ominous black button protrudes from the wall behind the basket. When I press it, a signal to someone, somewhere, turns what is an otherwise innocent basket, into a thunderous vacuum tube that takes my soiled clothing to some other place.

They need to get on with it, my punishment I mean. Please let them rid me of this foul existence and let me be in the comfort of the dark for eternity. Is there a chance I can visit the people I've put there? That doesn't matter, I doubt they'd want to see me anyway, and I don't think I'll go where Iíve sent them. I'm willing to accept my fate, Lord, and I thank you for giving me the strength to make it through these last few years, even if the cause of me being here displeases you. May I see you soon, and I can only wish that you will be happy to welcome me into your arms.

A small speaker in the corner of the ceiling emits static; a voice follows. Iíve never put much thought about the absence of conversation, but now it proves to be a necessity. Iíve forgotten the sound of the female voice; the softness and comfort that can make you quiver if used correctly - even a good morning would suffice. The speaker lets out a click, signaling that the person on the other end is finished with the daily announcement. Canít there be just one day where the voice says we can go outside for a while, even just a minute? Others here get to breathe the fresh air, but I guess Iíve lost that luxury. Instead, the dirty recycled air is all that I and a few others deserve. At least thatís what Iím told.

A knock on my door causes my body to stiffen in position Ė they never knock, why now? The voice coming from the other side sounds the same as the speaker. The door opens and I stand up. A man that I have never seen is in front of me, he stares silently before he places his hand on my shoulder and uses the other hand to gesture me toward the open door. His telescoping baton dangles from his belt; one wrong move and Iíll be on the receiving end, again. Is it wrong to long for the pain? Maybe pain is the wrong word as nothing about the sharp touch of the baton causes me any discomfort. I almost welcome it, but not today.

The look he gives me is strange. The usual cold stare is replaced with that of concern, or worry. Is it finally going to happen today? Am I leaving this place for good?


ďNo one asked you to speak.Ē He says to me.

A silent moment passes before he continues ďtodayís the day, inmate.Ē

Warmth engulfs my pelvic area, followed by a tingle. The amount of bliss is immeasurable. I clench my fists and lock my jaw tight. My eyes close and I take a deep breath. Iíve waited for this moment Ė death.

The lightly placed hand on my shoulder turns quickly into a firm grasp. His face now has that of frustration and disgust.

The slight green hue from the fluorescent lights in the hall ceiling always makes me squint; Iíve forgotten what the sun looks like. The floor is cold on my bare feet, and the clothing does little to block the air that blows from the air vents in the ceiling and along the floor. The door at the end of the hall, the one that is never open, is where Iím being led. His hand is still on my shoulder, but the grip loosens before itís removed completely. He stops me just inches from the door and knocks. A man in black, with a piece of white around the neck line opens the door. He says nothing, just looks at me with swelled eyes and a look that shouts forgiveness. He escorts me into the fateful room. The guard that brought me here turns and leaves.

A large rectangular table resides in the middle. A curtain flows over one of the walls. Four canisters with gauges mounted on them and tubes protruding from their undersides hang on another wall. A small table with various instruments stands below them. The door that I just came through opens and a man that wears a white coat enters. He doesnít look at me but instead fiddles with the instrumentation on the small table.

The curtain opens. My bright orange clothing gleams in the reflection of the glass. This is the first time Iíve seen my face in months. I straighten my collar and throw a smirk at the people on the other side of the glass. I recognize some from the trial. Strange to think that all of these people were absent for the deaths of their loved ones, but seeing me die will fill the void theyíre feeling? Tears flow down the faces of some, while anger graces the face of others but no remorse should be wasted on me as I feel none toward them. Nothing can bring their loved ones back and Iím not sure Iíd take back what I did in the first place.

The overwhelming warmth I felt in my body as I removed life from them is something Iíll never forget, but something Iíll never feel again. For a short period I tried to use sex as filler between killings, but that quickly grew dull and mundane. There is no greater feeling than staring into the eyes of someone whose soul has just escaped. The calmness of their bodies immediately after death is breathtaking. No pun intended.

The man in the lab coat turns to me and guides me to sit down onto the table before gently pushing at my chest to lie down. The back of my head and my heels are cold from the tableís surface. He grabs my left arm and extends it with my palm facing up; his fingers run from my wrist to the pit of my elbow. I turn to watch as he gathers the tubes that are mounted onto the wall; from the table he picks up an IV central line. He swabs the soft skin, the needle follows. He repeats this process on my other arm.

One of the people behind the glass smiles at me; he was the one that got away. There was no pulse when I was finished, but someone happened upon his body and resuscitated him immediately after I left. It was the first and last time I didnít finish the job with a knife into the temple. I figured my hands on his neck did the job. The mother of the only child I killed is also here. She canít look into my eyes, but she isnít shying away from whatís going on with the needles in my arms. The thing about children is that theyíre necks will snap when enough force is applied, and doesnít let them experience asphyxiation. The mother decided against an open casket since the childís neck was grossly misshapen.

He attaches two tubes to each of the central lines taped securely to my forearms before walking to the wall where the canisters are mounted. The same little black button from my room is mounted next to where he stands. The hiss of compressed air is all I hear after he presses it. A milky fluid flows down one of the lines of my right arm; it stings as it enters me. Another hiss releases a clear fluid down to my left arm. The sting isnít as sharp, my vision begins to narrow. I donít hear the next fluid sent, but itís dark and moves fast. The sting subsides. Tunnels close in around my eyes. The final liquid comes, I canít see the color. The tunnels take over and the comforting darkness returns; I turn my head to the ceiling. I donít feel the cold on the back of my head or heels. My eyes slowly close.

September 23rd, 2016, 01:01 AM
Well written. Very dark. Just wonder why would read it if is wasn't here.

September 23rd, 2016, 02:19 PM
I don't know what you mean by that comment.