My body aches. I don't know how long I have been here in this cell, this prison. I quickly lost track of time. I assume that is part of the punishment, the dislocating of the prisoner from time and place. I am blindfolded, and there are no sounds that permeate the sealed chamber. No footsteps sound out in the hallway as they pass by my door.
After the state court convicted me of my crimes, I was brought to this prison. My head was shaved clean, my forearm tattooed with my prisoner number. In handcuffs I was brought to this cell, with its smooth steel walls. A chain with a hook hung from the high ceiling. Below it, embedded in the floor, were two U-bolts. The first had ankle shackles attached to it, while the second had a leather strap that lay open on the floor.
I was led to the center of the room and stripped of my clothing. The guards forced me to my knees and my ankles were quickly shackled as my manacled hands were raised above my head. The hook was pulled down and the chain connecting my shackles was looped through it and locked into place. As I sat back on my heels, the leather strap was tightened around my legs, binding them together and to the floor. The chain with the hook was then raised so that my arms were stretched straight above my head. They blindfolded me then, and taped my mouth closed. The last sounds I heard, other than my own breathing and weeping, was the clanging of the door as it shut and the turning of the handle as it was sealed.
Has it been days? Or only hours? I rub my shorn head against my arm but feel no stubble. I am starving, though I had not been fed much for days before my quick little trial. I am exceedingly thirsty, and the tape across my mouth only makes my lips feel drier. I work my mouth and jaw to try to loosen it, to no avail. I want to scream, but cannot.
Is this what the court sentenced me to? Like all who are convicted of crimes, I was not told what my sentence would be. Life? Death? Six months? Twenty years? Public penance and humiliation? There are no guidelines, and the convicted prisoner's fate is left to the whim of the court. I remember the dour faces of the three judges as they proclaimed me guilty, then passed along the paper that declared my sentence. Each signed it in turn, then sealed it and passed it to the bailiff. Within the hour I was in this cell.
I wrap my hands around the chain and hook and attempt to pull myself up slightly to ease the pressure on my arms and to restore circulation to my legs. It doesn't work. The strap binding my legs is so tight that it cuts into my skin each time I try to move. My shoulders scream for relief, and my chest heaves as I try to breathe. I lean my head back, my unseeing face to the ceiling.
I had, of course, seen the public penances of prisoners many times. The convicts, both men and women, are taken to the public squares of the towns where their crimes had been committed. Their heads are shaved and they are forced to stand for an entire day on a platform for all to see. The convict holds a sign stating his crimes. Some are sentenced to do this only once, others many times. I thought how awful it would be to stand before the citizens this way, garbed in the gray prison uniform, your prisoner number stenciled on the breast and tattooed on your arm, your head shaved, your feet bare. How easy that seems now.
These convicts would later rejoin society, rehabilitated and working menial jobs, their prisoner tattoos always branding them. I would see them standing at the bus stop, their hair still short, their shoulders hunched, their faces gray and drawn. One never talked to them, asked them why they were imprisoned, what happened to those who were never released. They moved like ghosts through our society, a constant reminder of all those who never reappeared.
I will become one of the unknowns, one who is convicted and disappears within the walls of a prison never to be seen again. My family will never know my fate. I do not know my fate. How long will I be in this chamber? Will they release me, or have I been sentenced to be put to death here? Execution. People know that they are carried out, but no one ever knows who or when or even how. When I was a boy, they held them in the prison courtyard, and notices were posted in the papers after the fact. One would wake up to the screams of a neighbor who had read about the execution of a loved one in the morning newspaper. Quick hangings they did, with the photo of the condemned dangling from the noose, the black hood covering the head.
When I was about ten, my mother's sister had been hanged, and I remember my mother's hysterics as she looked at the photo of the young woman as her body hung beneath the gallows. I had studied the picture, trying to see my vivacious, lovely aunt in the hooded figure, her hands cuffed behind her back, her arms and legs strapped tightly together. I read her name in the caption over and over again, not quite registering that she would never come to visit again, bringing me candies that had been smuggled into the state somehow.
I now think about what it would be like to be hanged, to feel the hood pulled over your head, the noose tighten around your neck, the trap disappear beneath your feet. They are not going to execute me that way, though. I had heard rumors that they came into the cell and quickly shot the condemned in the back of the head as he knelt blindfolded facing the wall. Maybe they will shoot me like that. Maybe they will pump gas into the room, or attach electrodes to my head and leg. I had been tortured with electricity before my trial, and I don't want to be executed that way. Maybe I'm just going to be left to die of starvation and thirst.
My mouth waters as I remember the taste of the candies that my aunt had brought me as a c h i l d, the richness of the chocolate on my tongue, the stickiness of the caramels. I remember my mother's dinners, delicious despite the lack of meat and other foodstuffs, her way with spices and herbs impeccable. I remember wine and liquor and the sensation of giddy drunkenness, the laughter of my friends, the sensual touch of my lovers. I remember cool water on my tongue and throat, and I let my head fall forward as I weep.
*
I think about the last time I saw my lover. We had been asleep in bed, curled up against each other, naked after our lovemaking. As they always did, the police came at night, and we were startled awake by the door to the apartment slamming open. I heard her scream as I reached for the gun in the drawer of the bedside table, but they grabbed me before I got the drawer open. My hands were quickly cuffed, and I looked over at my lover as she was also arrested.
We were both dragged naked into the street, to the waiting vans. She was forced into the back of the van for the women's prison, the doors slamming shut and forever hiding her from my view before I was dragged into the van for the men's prison. I've never seen her since. Our trials were separate, as was our confinement. As is our punishment.
I imagine her going through what I had gone through, the tortures and humiliations of the prison, the questioning, the brief trial. I envision them shaving off her long, dark hair after convicting her, and tattooing her prisoner number on her delicate arm. Where is she now? Locked in a chamber like mine, awaiting death? Standing on a platform in public, holding up a sign that lists her crimes? Has she already been executed?
I cannot think of her. It hurts too much. Her fate is my fault. But I cannot stop thinking of her, of the way she made love to me, the way she kissed the hollow of my throat. I could almost feel her tongue on my skin, teasing me. But it is nothing more than memory now.
*
My legs no longer exist. They have disappeared. I picture my body now, hanging from my manacled wrists, swinging like a pendulum. But I am not moving, so my legs must still be there, bound to the floor. Once again I rub my face against my arm to loosen the blindfold, but it remains in place. I feel a bit of stubble on my scalp now, though. How long have I been here?
I can hear sounds now, soft whisperings that seem to slide along the smooth walls and never quite reach me. I strain to hear them, longing to open my taped mouth and talk to them. But the voices are too soft, and the words no more than an almost silent burbling.
Do they watch me? Am I sealed up in here forever, already forgotten, or do they watch as I lose my mind. Do they enjoy it when my cock swells as I lose myself in a memory of my lover? Do they laugh when I pi$$ myself? Do my tears only harden their hearts?
When they had tortured me, I knew that they had enjoyed it. They didn't care much if I gave them any useful information or not, as long as I screamed and writhed as the jolts of electricity coursed through my legs and genitals. They forced me to stand for hours on a small stool covered with small wooden spikes that bit into the soles of my feet. They smeared excrement, my own as well as theirs, all over my body. They beat me with canes. They r@ped me.
And now I am alone. Except for the whispers. I concentrate hard and try to broadcast out my thoughts to them, to ask them who they are. No answer comes. I try again, but once again no reply. They take no pity on my tears, staying just out of reach of my frustrated ears.
*
At first I think that it is fresh blood trickling down my arm from my raw wrists, but it is cold. Icy. I feel it trace down my arm, from the wrist to the thin skin of the inside of my elbow. Slowly it makes its way to my shoulder and underarm, down my side to my thigh. I shiver at the solitary drop, its lone path cutting through me and freezing my entire being. Then there is another.
This one drips down the other arm, and as it reaches my shoulder, I feel another drop on my wrist. I clasp my fingers around the chains, feeling the icy wetness of them. More drops trickle down my arms, and I try to struggle again to escape the chill. If I don't move, the cold will kill me. But I can't move. Only my head can thrash about, only my fingers and toes are free in their bindings. I try to scream.
The trickle increases, the water seeping down the chain to my naked body. The water starts to puddle around my legs. I lean my face against my arm, my parched mouth desperate for some of the water, but the tape barring it from relief. My body is now covered with icy water, and I cannot drink any of it.
I feel the water rising around my legs, the iciness dull against their numbness. It crawls up my buttocks, and I sense its icy fingers entering me, raping me the way the guards had. I sense my cock shrinking as the frigid water laps around it. I struggle again, but my legs are useless. My teeth chatter behind my taped mouth.
I understand now that I will either freeze to death or drown. This is my execution. No quick hanging like my beautiful aunt had been given, no quick shot to the head as the rumors had promised. My head hangs down against my chest, the water on the back of my neck like a cold blade. That would be merciful, I think, to have my head severed from my body. Long before I was born they had beheaded criminals in the state, strapping them to a machine and releasing a blade that made efficient work of the execution. Too efficient. I allow my mind to wander, to imagine being strapped to one of the machines. I stare down into a metal container that will capture my severed head and the blood that will spurt from my neck. They stopped the beheadings, they said, because criminals and enemies of the state did not deserve such mercy.
No, much better to make the executions slow and lingering, isolated and secret. It keeps the people fearful, unsure of what horrible, lonely fate awaits them if they cross the line. So we move like sheep through our lives, ignoring the friends and family members who disappear into the night. Until it is our turn to disappear.
The lip of the water encircles my waist, and I pray for the trickle of water to quicken. Millimeter by slow millimeter the water rises, covering my navel and climbing up my chest. I throw my head back and breathe deeply through my nose as the iciness permeates my chest, seeming to freeze my lungs inside me. The air is not warm enough to offset the cold water.
My blinded face towards the ceiling, I feel the iciness creep up my body, covering my shoulders and encircling my neck. A dreadful fear overcomes me, along with a desperate desire to live. In spite of all the tortures and all the pain that racks my body, I don't want to die. Not like this, alone and in the dark, cold and forgotten. I feel the frigid water on the back of my head. Behind the tape that gagged my mouth, I scream out in anger.
The water rises to my ears, to my cheeks. My face will soon be submerged, and I try desperately to pull myself up as far as I can, but my frozen, useless fingers slip on the slick chain. I take deep breaths through my nose as my eyes and mouth are covered with water. As the water envelops my entire face, I try to hold my breath. I can't, and water soon rushes in through my nostrils. I thrash about in my chains, the cold water seeping into my sinuses.
I choke and struggle, and the blackness that has blinded my eyes breaks into sparks and flashes of light. My head sinks to my chest, finally, and my frozen body stills. I can sense the water still climbing up my arms stretched above me, and I wonder for the briefest moment how long my body will stay submerged in this chamber. It doesn't matter. My body is dying, and my mind slips into the warm comfort of unconsciousness.
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