As I sit in the dirt patiently
awaiting my death, the day is grey. Dark clouds hang over the scene, shutting the
sun out of the sky. A child no older than seven is standing in front of me, gun
slightly shaking in his hand, unsure if he is ready to become a murderer or if
today is the day of his death. An officer I used to be, dare I say, friends
with is yelling at him to “just do it”. As I stare at the young boy, I recall when
I was in his position. When I had killed a man in the name of Corinthian.
The man had to have been in his
early fifties to late forties. His clothes were old and tattered. His feet were
bare but completely calloused from years of shoeless labor. The skin on his
face was worn, wrinkled, dry, scabbed. His
beard was bushy and untamed. His fingernails were gone, most likely due to one
of the many torture techniques that had been used on him. Deep, dark circles
ran around his eyes from enduring nights of sleeplessness. The most memorable
part about him was his eyes, for within the depths of them was nothing - blue pools
of empty nothingness - free of hope, faith, and the illusion of survival.
Now I am the man. The man that knew
his future held nothing but pain and didn’t care whether he lived or died. The
only sadness I feel, is not for myself, but for the small boy in front of me.
Either the boy would pull the trigger and give his soul to the devil that is
Corinthian, or he would refuse. The overseeing officer would just shoot the boy
and hand the gun to another. I am already dead.
