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He saw white. He always saw white. The bars were white, the walls were white, his bed was white. He had nothing left but his bed, and this tiny space they'd given him to exist. To exist only temporarily, until the appeals, the requests for clemency, and the general pleas for mercy had fizzled out into the back pages of the Stanton Daily when the time finally came for the switch to be pulled.

It was seven o'clock. The hot sun of a summer afternoon was fading away. He never had a chance to look outside while he was in the cell. Once a day he would get a quick peek as they took him to the indoor exercise room for an hour-long workout. The rest of the time he stayed in his cell and tried to keep himself company, fighting insanity and cursing those who had put him there. The bright orange glow in the hallway was the closest to watching the sunset as he would ever get.

The familiar sound of iron bars clicking in and out of place pierced his ears. The guard was coming. He looked forward to visitors, whoever they may be. It helped him keep his sanity, which if given the chance was going to get lost.

"You've denied your request for a last meal and we've just come to make sure that's what you want." he said in a stern, official voice. The guard had a strong southern accent but a northern dimeneaor. He mumbled quietly "No thank you," and noticed the tape recorder in the guard's hand. "I ain't got no last words neither." The guard looked down at the recorder. He opened his mouth to speak, but came up short of words and walked back out the gate.

The doors clicked shut. The sound was painful, he loved to see any visitors but he hated that sound when they left. It reminded him that he was trapped in that small cell, awaiting the time when they'd strap him in that chair and do what was ordered by the court almost fifteen years ago.

The ticking clock was his only friend and most hated enemy. Whoever decided to put a ticking clock on death row, he thought, must have been one sadistic bastard. Over the years he resented the constant tick-tock of that clock, but that night it was the teller of his fate. He had been watching it closely for the past few weeks, counting the hours until his death.

It was a sickening thought. A group of seemingly sane humans circling around him and watching him as he sit strapped to a chair. The jolts would surge through him and cause him to clench every muscle in his body harder than he ever had in his life. And in that clench his organs would fry, they would fry by the will of those humans circled around him. Prison wasn't enough for him, not nearly, they had to terminate his brian function for what he had done.

He read the bible for the next few hours. His family had disowned him, he didn't care, and after denying his last meal the guards were content in letting him be until the time had come. The bible never meant much to him and it still didn't, but he read it in case there did happen to be a god up there. He thought he might as well get on his good side.

His eyes were drying out after such a long period of reading. He didn't want to look away from that book and remember what was about to come to him. "You have devised shame for your household, cutting off many peoples, forfeiting your own life," he read, as the guards re-entered the hall and opened his cell. "It's time," the guard mumbled. He nodded and stood up as they worked together to shackle him.

That walk, a walk of shame and fright, is supposed to be the worst part of execution. He felt nothing. Not peace with God, not acceptence of death, not fear. Being locked in that cage for so many years caused him to lose most all his feelings. He stood at the ground and walked as best he could with the shackles they had on his ankles. A man was waiting at the door, and opened it as he approached.

There it was. The chair. So large, so basic. No design elements whatsoever, just wooden blocks nailed to eachother and fitted with straps. He sat and they started to hook him up, connecting his head, arms, and legs to this death machine. Those in the viewing window were going to get their wish, he was going to fry. He stared at every one of them because he knew that was what they wanted. He didn't care that they'd put him there, he didn't care that they would enjoy his death.
He could see the red phone on the wall. A part of him hoped it wouldn't ring. The guards left the room and talked amongst themselves behind the thick brick wall. "Alright now. Wait until midnight, we're going to do this right" the warden said. It was three minutes until midnight. He sat there expecting the next second to be his last, having no idea that they were waiting until the clock striked twelve.

It seemed like an eternity. He sat and waited as there was one minute left, almost relaxing at the though that they'd come back in the room to fix something. As if he was bored in a waiting room, he started glancing around. The walls were blank and so he looked down at the buckles holding him in. Not to examine them really, just to have something to look at. "Go," the warden said, and with that the current was sent to the chair. His fists clenched and the witnesses watched as the drool dropped from the side of his lip and his eyes rolled back into his head. The first series of jolts lasted three minutes. His body clenched with each one, as if the man controlling the current was screaming "Die! Die! Die!" with every pull of the switch.

They let him sit there for a moment as his body smoked and cooled off, so the physicians could come in and pronounce death. Six minutes later they entered the room and found a pulse. The sadist switch operator had not done his job. "Die! Die! Die!" he screamed in his thoughts as the second series was given, this time lasting ten minutes. The smoke poured off of his body and filled the room. This time the doctors had to wait even longer to enter, until the stench of death was ventilated.

Still a pulse. It had been a half hour since they first tried to kill him. As the man checked for a heartbeat again, he struggled to open his eyes. He managed to get one open and stare the doctor straight in the face, as he gave the slightest smirk. With that his eyes closed again and his face fell limp, but there was still a heartbeat.
The voltage was increased and they sent the currents again. After another fifteen minutes the doctors re-entered and pronounced death to the burning corpse that sit upright before them. The witnesses had their justice, and he had his freedom.

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The following comments are for "Frying in Stanton"
by flymos

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