by Daniel Cawthorne

Created on: September 06, 2008

He sits on the bench inside the town jailhouse, rotting away, hoping he'll die before he stands on the platform, and wait his turn in line for the gallows.

As he sits he hears the now familiar sound of a rope pulling taut and the strangled, attempted breathing of a man on death row. He sighs.

He wonders why he is here, what series of events, what circumstances led him to this spot, this exact spot. He would weep, but the time for weeping was long past. He had spent all his tears wetting the dirt floor of his too-small cell. He recalls the circumstances. Murder.

As he sits and ponders and thinks about his crime, he hears another rope, another life leaving behind a notorious legacy of wanton murder, and he knows that he's not so far back in line, not so far back that he can't make amends. But he's tried already. He is sorry.

He thinks back on his crime.

It was a warm day, unseasonably warm. A slight breeze rolled around and whipped up small dust devils. The General Store stands silent, no one coming in, no one leaving it. The buildings to the left and right, mostly boardinghouses, also stood silent. It was one of those days. It was one of the days where the only activity is across the street in the saloon.

Men, fresh from the mines or just off work, all gather around telling each other stories over beer. They tell of indians and attacks and murderers being strung up. They tell tales of justice and lawlessness, and their hearers take it in

Other men are in there swallowing down their pain. They drink to forget because remembering hurts and pain is the one thing they can't help. Except to drink. He was one of them.

He drank to forget the offences met out against him who knows how long ago. His only love had left him. Left him for a deacon (and son of the pastor) from the little churchhouse around the corner. They ran off only He knows where.

He orders another shot of whiskey and downs it, and the more he downs it, the more he remembers. He doesn't forget, but remembers. And the more he remembers the angrier he gets. And the angrier he gets, the more he wants to track down that low-life, scum of a deacon, and take back what was rightfully his.

He downs another one. He listens to the raucous laughter of the men behind him, now telling coarse jokes. For all he knows, they could be telling the story of ol' what's-his-name's wife who ran off with what's-his-name the deacon. More laughter. And the more he hears the laughter, and the more he downs the whiskey, the more he wants

• 1
• 2
• 3
• Next Page >>