My neck itched. The kind from a mosquito bite… yes, that was
what it was. It surprised me. I thought my isolation was air tight, complete. I
felt the creature suckle on the nape of my neck, as I turned towards the
grilled and blackened windows, and tried to peer out of them. My neck continued to itch. The realization that my solitude was compromised
aroused me. Nothing so irksome had ever induced such
a pleasure, I was sure. Oh, Life. Curious little ……… thing, shall we say? How
it is impossible to be detached from it. What was it? That magical little spark; that abstract
….. immortal, incorporeal essence in each one of us. Where did the difference
arise, where does the distinction between inanimate and those tiny organisms go
blurry, where do consciousness and reason start to present themselves, what was
this ……. thing? So many questions. It
was like my grandfather would tell me, when he found me crying because we
couldn't afford toys like the other children, the ones who were waited upon, head to foot; – “Be thankful for what you have. It is God's gift” .I
had life. I was probably never thankful enough. Squinting hard to see if I
could observe anything beyond the bleak, painful blackness, I felt the depth of
the words, as they cut through me like rusted daggers. Tis’ a great curse, the
untouchable enchantment that exists in understanding it in its entirety.
We
need nobody to ask us to be good
humans, least of all the noose. Has it no value in itself? A question you
probably think I should have asked myself ages ago. Nevertheless, you know not
my motives, nor my milieu. You know nothing of any of it. Do not judge me.
Moreover, in a world where everything is a transaction, it's not the worst idea
to take the time to forgive and be forgiven. Of course, you would say
that I am nobody to speak of these morals, a freak, a depraved monster, right out of the
lowest dregs of society. And I would agree with you. Remember however, that I
was born just as human as you. I am what I have been made. By society, if you
will. Not every one of us is born with a silver spoon. Some of us have nothing.
Some of us have not even basic choices in life. And no education to make
them, even if we had them. Our sentiments trodden upon, our tragedies unseen, our pain untouched by solidarity; in short, a life of untold agony, and a death with no glory. Yes, that was what awaited each and every one of us. We wanted to stand upon our own feet and look fair
and square at the world, its good, its bad, its beauties, and its ugliness; see
the world as it is and be not afraid of it. We wanted to conquer the world with
the little we had and not merely be slavishly subdued by the terror that comes
from it. We just didn't know how. You must
understand though, that my objective is not to justify the atrocities committed
by every criminal. Yes, I committed a
heinous crime; yes, I am a sick human being; and yes, I deserve rigorous
punishment. But death? What of redemption? Can anyone be so inhuman, that they
are beyond redemption? And who are you to take away something you barely
comprehend?
I
scratched myself against a metallic protrusion behind me, my chains creaking as
I twisted. The mosquito had left. It
felt like the last drop of life just evaporated out of this little chamber of
mine. Just as it brings transient pleasure, life takes it away, it disappoints you. You'd wish that time and the pain of failure would cleanse and harden the
mind, like the summer sun scorches and shines granite by death until the last
lichen is withered and the last moss gone, and there is happiness in
hopelessness. But the universe is unkind- ever so often it will sprinkle the
fog on the stone steps and a new, fetid green will grow- a new mold, a new
cycle of painful, ephemeral life.
The
vehicle came to a sudden halt. The doors were flung open, and I was dragged out
into a yard. The sole occupants of this miserable piece of earth were two men.
Two men more different in appearance, I have never seen. The fearsome, masked
executor, and the frail old man with The Holy Book, generated mixed emotions in
me. Two verses of The Holy Book were read to me, as I was walked up to the
platform. The noose fell around my shoulders, and I was asked if I wanted any
last words. Did I want last words?! I had more than a few words in mind.
However, swallowing them in entirety, I chose to simply smile at the old man,
or rather chuckle with whatever little was left in me, to tell him that I had
not lost, that they were wrong to hang me, that I still had a chance to be a
redeemed soul, and that I still wouldn't do anything about it, because that’s
who I was trying to be, a Gentleman, even if it meant losing my petty life. Probably sweetest of sour grapes.
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