Death. Death is the ending—the ending we all have timed. You will die. I will die. We are not destined to live forever. In the grand spec of things, our lives are but a fickle. Yet we live our lives like we are the center of the universe. We strive for personal pleasure even if it hurts other humans. We would gladly choose our own lives before choosing someone else's, even if the ending is all the same. Yet when you speak these words out loud, you get multiple people with different claims. Some defend their viewpoints. Others create their own. We could start this argument today and continue it until the end of the human race (for I believe we will die before time), and still, we will never change our outcomes. We will die. Death is the end.
I awoke for the final time. The clock struck the day of my execution—May 12th. I looked over and was in a nursing room—all types of tubes and bags were attached to me. Some leaked fluids into my body while others took some out. A monitor fell forward into my eye view. Words darted across the screen, and I tried my hardest to read, but I felt like I was in a weak state. I mouth words, but nothing comes out. A tube rests in my mouth, and I am shocked. Why keep me alive to kill me again? Why save a life only to take it on your terms? My arm has a tube stuck to its stump. I can't feel my legs at all. I lie there as the monitor ascends and a nurse approaches. She speaks,
"Welcome back to the land of the living. A lot has happened since that little episode in the courtroom. I'm happy to announce that you managed to sleep until your death date, and you are overdue for this penalty. I hope you enjoy your last minutes because they won't be long. Now, what would your last meal be?"
I look over to the window on the right of me. I can't look over as I can't move at all, but I hear noisy boots hitting the pavement. They sound like soldiers filing in line one by one—marching to the sound of battle drums.
"Bring me a home-cooked meal from my mother, please."
She turns on her heels and leaves behind the curtain. I hear her footsteps slowly grow distant. What am I to think in a time like this? I have nothing left; I can't even see my family. This meal will be my last memory of them. My family won't even be there for my death. Will it be public? Will they try to gain monetary value off of me? I turn to the window again. I hear a helicopter land on top of the building. Someone must be famous or dangerous. Or dangerously fam... THE DEADMAN. Will he be here for my execution? They did say they thought we were trying to save him. It seems our group attack on the building didn't go successfully. They might even be held up in here, too. No, they were most likely killed in action and gone out like real warriors. I am the only failure of our group. I got the worse of the stick. They died quickly and probably painlessly. I have no clue what they will do to me today. A man walks in covered in armor and demands a nurse to unhook me. She complies, and I'm lifted onto a stretcher. He takes me down a couple of hallways and brings me to a cell. The cell has someone living in it, from my guess. There are comic books sprawled everywhere, and one bed is untucked. The stretcher leans forward, and I'm plopped onto my feet into the cell. It locks behind me as I fall to my knees from the sudden change of pace. I crawl to the neat bed and lie down. My eyes grow heavy as I lie on uncomfortably. I only have one arm, and it still feels weird to be limbless. Sleeping has always been difficult for me, but this nap seems like it won't ever happen. I try to think of anything else, but The Deadman is all that appears in my head. It's like I can hear him again. I see him in my mind, and he's whispering something. I can't make it out, so I give up trying to listen. I think of how miserable my life is. For it to turn out like this in such a short time is remarkable. I went from a typical school boy to being called a criminal in days. I scoff. I roll over to my side and feel a sharp pain in my arm. Oh yea, it isn't there. I look at it. I never got a good look at it because I was chained up for most of my time here. It's a stump. Scarred and bruised to all hell. There's nothing I can do about it now. I stand up and look out the window of my cell. It beams over like a balcony onto the riverfront. We are on an island surrounded by water with only a bridge. They must have boats filled with wardens and watchdogs? Watch sharks. Watch fish... Idk they have to have something in that ocean. I smile. It's good to smile in the face of the end. Especially when that's all left you can do. I resume sitting down in my cell; crying won't help anything, so I sit there and think. Think of all the good times, think of all the moments I would hide away in my treehouse. My family forced me to live up there by how much they would attack me. The Deadman got over 100 kills, and I celebrated every single one. I guess at some point; they had to hate it. I would observe ceremonies all the time with the group, sometimes doing things as drastic as drinking animal blood to fuel his rage. All in the name of The Deadman. It's liberating to find out that no matter how much I called on him, he wasn't there to save me. Tears began to fill my eyes again. I should've known the timeline I lived in was where I would die without ever getting to meet him. I start composing a poem in my head.
"O' Deadman O' Deadman where art thou my Deadman, my hero my slave. Will save thee, my Deadman O' Heartless O' Thoughtless. when will I be a dead man?"
I start to sing it towards the end. When will I die? If it is soon, please make it quick. I can't stand to bear this pain any longer. I sing it until I fall fast asleep. I didn't dream this time which was a first. The sounds of the cell doors opening jolt me awake, and I scream, jumping from the sleeping mat. The memories of being tortured have me like this. The guards don't say a word after my freak accident and point for me to follow. I do as instructed. I am lining myself in the middle of the armed guards. They have increased the number from two to seven. We walk one after the other through many corridors and hallways. I don't take note of our path because I know this is the last time I'll be here. This is the last time I'll see anyone's face. This is the end, and the end isn't a bad thing. This is just another beginning. We walk until we are in front of two large wooden doors. Two guards hold it open while I'm escorted through it. Each guard leaves their position to stand and hold back the significant crowd. As I enter through the doors, I'm taken aback by how many people are there. This seems to be a giant courtroom open to the public. Two rows of seating have been arranged, but no one is sitting down. They all have their phones and camera pointed toward me. Flashes blind me as I'm pushed forward by the guards behind me. Row after row is filled with family members of all the victims I've killed. These faces are unfamiliar until I scan the crowd and notice a familiar hat. My father's hat. The man wearing the hat is my father, and he slowly slides it off as we lock eyes. I expected sorrow. I expected sadness or any shred of remorse from him. Yet his gaze forces guilt into me. He has a face of anger, a look of distaste. My father yells words I never thought I'd hear him say.
"Kill that boy. End that monster, hang him for the crimes he's done nothing. He's guilty. FOR THE PEOPLE FOR THE PEOPLE."
His chanting words spirs the crowd the follow. In an instant, the entire place is yelling the same thing. The words echo in my mind as I'm shoved again by my guards. I start to stumble forward as I'm pushed. I fall to my knees but quickly get up. The crowd roars a cheer as I eat dirt and dust. I'm kicked over again by one of the guards, and they begin taking turns throwing me around. I crawl from their grasp onto wooden steps. I'm in the center of the crowd sitting atop a podium as more guards surround it. On the podium rest a single chair and a man in a cloak that points towards it. I follow his command, and he raises his hand to quiet the crowd. He speaks
"The people have spoken. They have found you guilty of all charges held against you. They demand justice, and although a murderer is being dealt righteousness, this is still another senseless murder. I withhold my statements, for this is the people's will, and the will of you all is final. Fire the machine."
The crowd sounds off again as the cloaked figure lets his hands fall to his side. The chair clasps metal onto my arms, and a device folds from behind and grabs my head. A sharp needle is ejected from behind my head, and I feel fluid release. I begin to panic and look around for anything, but the chants of their anger are louder than I can bear. I fall victim to an overload of my senses and I blackout. But the black was not death. I did not die. I felt my heart still beating, I felt my head still thinking, but I did not die. I saw my father, I saw my mother for a glimpse, and I even saw the Deadman. But I did not die. I roll off the tiny rubble that lay beneath my feet. I open my eyes to crumbling buildings and fallen debris. What happened here?
O' Deadman O' Deadman where art thou my Deadman my hero my slave will save thee my Deadman O' Heartless O' Thoughtless. When will I be a Deadman?