Finality

The clanging of the cell doors as we are lined up to walk in a uniformed shuffle to the docks, entices the devils to the surface, but they do not take over. Please let me have my last moments as my own, I pray. My head is ringing and I can feel fear and a deep, terrifying realisation running all over me. I can see a book of memories running through my inner eye, telling me my own story, about to come to its bitter end. Who said true stories are the best? I pray also that my father hasn’t come, a friendly face would be good, but I cannot stand to see his sad, lost eyes watching me. He has gone through so much and stayed good, true and kind throughout it all. My elder sister’s death, three years before my own birth and then, when I came, my mother died at my birth. People blame her for my madness, but father doesn’t, he says we all must have our struggles and mine is this.

We are lead into the bright sunlight, the first I have felt on my skin in months. It is such a relief, such an unfair reminder of what is about to be done, that the sun we feel on our skin, the bright blue space of wishes is all about to be taken away from us. Or rather, we are about to be taken away from it, through the soft, mystical veil of death. I prefer to think of it as a veil, rather than a barrier. Though we cannot pass through it more than once, it is not a barrier which divides us permanently. We all pass it eventually and so are all together again…eventually. But, still a sickly feeling thumps at my stomach. I feel myself begin to shake and the devils are standing ready, I dig my nails into my palms, creating a tight fist. I can feel the nails digging in, it stings, but at least they shall not come.

“Harmony Smithes, daughter of Mark Smithes, guilty of ten counts of murder, is to be hung by the neck until dead…” I barely hear the uniformed announcement, it is the same as the others, other than the terrifying number. The woman behind me hisses that I shall burn in hell…I wonder what sin she has committed to be here?

As I step up onto the platform, my heart feels as though it will explode. Fear is worse than anything else. A fear of something, like a trip to the doctors, is always worse than the thing we actually fear. I hope this analogy is true of my own fear, the fear of swinging ominously, like a pendulum on a grand-father clock, and that going beyond the veil is painless. I look all around, seeing the mountainous landscape of my home, the little cottages and houses, so calm, guarded by a slight haze from the bright, golden, beautiful sun, going about their everyday lives as I stand here. It is comforting, though I have killed so many, I am still seeing the normal life. I giggle nervously. Why? Why do I ruin the solemnity of this last moment? I suddenly see them. They have come and I sigh in relief. I shall watch them, I shall watch the butterflies as I….

The End

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