by: Nadine Sarreal

 i.

        The crowd pressed against the glass, each person vying for a better view. I couldn’t look at them. My mouth was dry. It was my first time, and as it turned out, also my last. Senior Warden said it would be easy-one swift motion.

        The woman sat unmoving in the Chair. Shorn of hair, her head revealed uneven ridges, hard and shiny flesh.

        Two reporters stood by the door. I heard the guard tell them she had converted three times before coming to the chamber. Christian to Buddhist. Buddhist to Muslim. Muslim to Christian again. He seemed puzzled by the sequence.

ii.

        I had taken the five thousand. It paid my debts of the moment.

iii.

        I cinched thick leather straps around her slender wrist－ first the right, then the left.I buckled her ankles to the chair legs. My hands brushed her skin－ cold flesh on cold flesh. There was no life in her eyes; a dull flat expression closed her away. We were both afraid, but I more than she, because I would live after her execution. And finally. the black cloth. I draped it over her head and loosened its folds enough for her to breathe.

iv.

        Senior Warden paced the room. He glanced only once at the red phone. At two past ten, he nodded. “It’s time.” People strained against the window, melded into a soundless clawing beast, a massive centipede. Isolated from its body, one hand worked a rosary of wooden beads. Mouths exhaled words that we inside could not hear. Did they say, “Let her live?” Did they shake their fists with anger or a violent compassion?

        “Gentlemen,” Senior Warden said, “and ladies,” nodding in our direction for I stood behind her, to the side of the chair. “It’s time. Mark the hour.”

v.

        I had do the will of my fingers toward them metal lever. It was my job. I had taken money. It was as good as done. Unmistakable odor of urine rose in the room and the hot rush jolted me into motion.

        I pulled the lever down. A hard definite click connected with the power.

        She shuddered in the chair and gurgled, choking on her tongue. Her hands flexed with individual madness, straining the leather straps. Beneath the cloth, her eyes bulged, her head tilted against the chair. What final images passed before her? Did she smell burning meat and wondered what it was?

        Senior Warden turned his head to the wall, away from us and from the people grown silent at the window. So still. Did they see the wet marks down the legs of my pants?

vi.

        The manual says the body must be left three hours to cool. I drew curtains across the window, blotting out stunned faces. Ironic to accord privacy for the corpse but not formerly to the living.

        The phone rang as we left the chamber. Senior Warden paused in the hall “Answer that, will you?”－ and walked on. But I closed the door and left her. Just three hours respite before I had to return and unstrap her body. Whosoever was calling, whatever it was they had to say, it was too late.