Compassionate Exit (a short story)

My execution will be compassionate I’m told.

Guess it’s a new thing they’re trying out.

“Cruelty free” they call it.

Why does that make me feel so much more like an animal?

No green mile to walk though. No years on death row.

When my final appeal came back with the big guilty verdict, they let me go home. Ankle bracelet with a ten kilometer perimeter.

I suppose this is an important time to mention my crimes weren’t violent, so that helped my case.

Then again, you’ve got to be a special kind of twisted to get classed in the exclusive club of the “violent,” these days.

Serial killers have mal-developed brains, sexual deviants are suffering from an addiction.

If I had a bit more time I’d challenge you to find anything that they don’t repackage as something else in our modern era.

This isn’t politics though. I’m just pointing out how I got here.

Call what’s about to happen to me a slumber party if you like, they still can’t afford to have people like me around.

***

This morning my phone rang. I had it switched to silent, so actually missed it the first time. Kind of funny to imagine the thirty seconds of terror on their end before I called back.

No?

“Today’s the day? Sure, I’ll be in around eleven….two? Okay yea sure, that works for me just as well.”

The doctor seems like a nice guy. Wedding ring. Got dressed up for the occasion—which I appreciate. All that white makes his fresh tan stand out. I asked him about it. He’s just got back from New Caledonia.

This makes me feel good.

I want my executioner to have a life. I don’t want him to be some medical obsessed creature of Joseph Mengele ilk.

Though this is all an experiment. That part isn’t lost on me.

The room he escorts me to is set up like I’m seeing a shrink. Long comfortable looking couch. Orange is a questionable colour though. The room has a nice view overlooking the bay.

The doctor encourages me to breath it all in while the numbing cream on my arm kicks in.

When I begin searching the room—maybe licking my lips, though I don’t notice I’m doing that—he reads my mind and leads me to a neatly stocked mini-bar. I go for a beer. Bottle wet with condensation as well.

He passes me a bag of chips that I didn’t ask for, but appreciate after the face. Salt and Vinegar, nothing crazy.

Cars are heading to work down there. I can even see people cracking beers of their own down by the waterfront. Nice way to spend a Wednesday.

I ask for a second beer and catch a streak of mischief in the doctor’s eye. “You will tell me when that arm’s gone numb won’t you?”

I’ve gulped beneath the label before I nod.

Once the third beer has my head thinking I’m at a Saturday Barbecue, the doc beckons me over to a power point near the window.

There’s some contraption plugged into it with blue flashing lights.

“We’ve got your mother on reserve. That’s your requested contact, correct?”

My smile fades. I nod.

Wondering why we couldn’t just use a phone. Then not wondering at all.

“Jamie?”

“Yea Mum, it’s ahh, its—”

“The big day—-” she fills in my sentence, but those words don’t leave space for anything after. We sit in silence. I can’t help but feel guilty about the doc’s schedule, but I’m sure he probably leaves a clear day for procedures like this.

“Y’know, they’ve got a real modern setup out here.” I eventually say.

“Yea? It’s at the Watson—”

“It’s the Watson Building, yea. Great view.” I clear my throat and sit up. “It’s funny, when we used to take those walks down by the waterfront, I always used to look up at this pointy thing, and wonder what they got up to in here—”

I cough into the phone, but she mistakes it for something else.

Suddenly I’m listening to sobbing and my own eyes are welling up.

“No Mum, it’s okay. This isn’t like it used to be.”

“They’re still killing my child aren’t they?”

I can’t answer that. I make the mistake of looking up and the damn doctor has tears streaming down his face. Don’t do that. Don’t be on my side. Don’t take away my one object to hate.

We don’t say much else that’s worth including here. A few formalities around my “things.” Didn’t get within driving distance of the topic of all the dreams I shared with embarrassing openness once upon a time.

I glance at the bar and debate asking for another beer. This guy would let it slide, I can tell. But he’s taken the fun out of it. I didn’t see it before, but now I recognize him. That tan, that laid back demeaner. He’s the “fun” teacher who by being in on the conspiracy, has made it lose all of its naughty draw.

“Let’s rig it up.’ I say.

He doesn’t move. Checking I really mean it.

I nod.

He swallows a lump in his throat.

The fucking monster.