Twenty seven
years.
Twenty seven years of laughter, and heartbreak, and loves
destroyed, and fear, and self-loathing, and pain.
Twenty seven
years of life, with but a mere handful of hours before it was
destroyed, utterly and without mercy.
Somewhere in there, he
should have found poetic justice.
On the table beside him, his
last meal went untouched, for favor of the pen and paper that he'd
requested first and foremost. All around him, crumpled remnants of
letters were strewn about, ideas and beginnings that were in the end
abandoned.
He leaned back for just a moment, closed his eyes, ran
shaking hands through his hair, nervously.
How was it… that
everything was going to end so suddenly?
He'd never even be able
to say goodbye in person.
Just through a letter, a memento mori,
for Michael…
Pen set to paper again.
No stopping this time.
No turning back…
There wasn't any time left for such
hesitation, now.
Dearest Michael, And I suppose that, in
due time, we both knew that we would inevitably have to face the end
of our one, remaining good thing. Rather, my one, remaining good
thing, as I make no arrogant wagers about how greatly or minutely I
impact your life, with these letters written from prison. I've
been following in the papers – you seem to have been letting
yourself slip of late, Michael. Taking a back seat, taking time out
of the limelight. Why is that? Is it because you don't want the
fame anymore? Or is it because I am the cause of your fame… because
in the end, I made you famous, and you and Lashley made me
infamous. Its funny, isn't it, how things work out? How the
world can be so stacked against two people that, in the end, not even
love can surmount the odds? I've had a feeling that this
night was coming, for some time… because I've been dreaming about
you, so much, lately. Every night, there's some new dream of you,
some beautiful fantasy or memory that takes me away from these walls,
and places me in your arms again. I've dreamt that Lashley never
existed, I've dreamt that Lashley was never able to make that call
before I ended him… I've dreamt that we ran away together, away
from San Francisco, and that no one could ever find us again. Hell,
the other day I woke up and I swear I smelled you in the air. But
when I rolled over you weren't there. I got mad at myself for getting
happy. And then last night, I dreamt that you came here, to
visit me. I dreamt that I opened my eyes and you were sitting on a
chair in my cell, watching me sleep… And then I woke up, and
I was alone in my cell, with the warden standing on the other side of
the bars. And at this, I suppose… I suppose it's
time to come to the true subject and purpose of this letter. After
tonight, all good things must come to an end. There will be no
more letters, after this one, Michael… Because in just a few hours,
I'll be dead. And ironically, I find that I'm absolutely
terrified. Scientifically, let's examine this procedure. I
sit here, having eaten a last meal, having showered, having changed
my clothes. I've refused the attendance of a spiritual advisor…
but in a way, I wish I hadn't. In time, twenty minutes before my
execution is set to start, I'll be strapped to a gurney, and I'll
be wheeled into a room with a one-way mirror. On the other side,
there will be people, and a great number of them. At
midnight, the warden will give the word. I'll be given a chance to
make a last statement, which will be recorded for posterity and the
media… then the procedure begins. First, an injection sodium
thiopental. A sedative, ironically. Its meant to keep me from feeling
pain, but this procedure progresses too quickly for it to take hold.
5 grams of this will be induced via needle into my left arm – a
lethal dose in and of itself, but we don't stop there. Secondly,
pancuronium bromide, a paralytic. Keeps us from thrashing around when
the big fun starts. And lastly, potassium cyanide, to bring
about the sum of our experiment here. After that's been induced,
300 mg of it to be precise, I will lose consciousness within a matter
of minutes. The cyanide breaks down the cellular wall, specifically
targeting those of the brain and my lungs, and I will suffocate after
lapsing, essentially, into a comatose state. During this, I would
normally convulse, but the paralytic prevents this… to cause less
trauma to both the victim and the witnesses.
There's a saying
that I'm quite sure you've heard before; that all good things
must come to an end. Chaucer said that, though its been attributed to
many, many people over the centuries.
He leaned back, chewed thoughtfully at the top of his pen for a moment or so. Somehow, it all made him want to laugh.
Well, there was a
little throwback to discussions in med school. A simple
procedure, and a monster dies. And the world is somehow a better
place than it was with me simply being given therapy,
institutionalized, or kept in prison for the rest of my life. God
bless the United Nations. Now on the other side of that
glass, there will be a crowd of wolves, howling for my blood. There
will be the parents and families of my victims. There will be the
media. And there will be my mother and father, praying for the death
of the devil right before their very eyes. I'm glad you
won't be there. I wouldn't want you to see me like that. In
a few days time, you'll be receiving a box, with my things. I…
want you to have them, what little I have. Your letters to me, the
piercings I wear, my books, the pieces of music I've written here
and never had the chance to try playing… Pictures of us… I want
you to have them, because my family will destroy them and it will be
as if I never existed outside of whatever pictures you took of me.
I want someone who won't look at them with disgust or
spectacle, to have them. I want someone who loves me for who
I could have become, not the monster I was, to hold them close and
whisper, "I will remember you." … and now here come the
tears. You can see them on the paper, and I can't bring myself to
wipe them away, because they're part of me, and soon there will be
nothing left. And I suppose here comes the emotional rambling… I'm
sorry. I'm sorry for everything that's happened. I'm
sorry for everything I've ever done. I'm sorry that I failed
you. I really did want to get better, Michael. I tried so
hard… I tried so very, very hard, and I really did mean for that
boy in the spare room to be the last one… I promised you, and I
never broke my promises… you know that… But Lashley… He…
I failed you. I failed you because of him. I failed you
because he got the best of me, tricked me… I failed you because in
the end, maybe there really is no redeeming me. Maybe I really am
broken inside, beyond repair. But broken or not, I know I
broke my promise to you, and that hurts more than anything else I've
ever known. I failed the man I love beyond all reason, the man who
holds the keys to my heart… the man who made me, if only for a
short time, know what the words "life is beautiful" really meant.
The first time I confessed to how I felt about you… the first time
we kissed, in that cemetery where we shared the wine… The first
time my hands touched your skin… The first time I laid with you all
night, and listened to your heart beating as you slept… Memories
that I wouldn't trade for all the world. Loves like ours are meant
to have happy endings, aren't they? So what the fuck did we do
wrong? Where did I mess up so badly, that it left us both out in the
cold…? I in the grave and you standing before my headstone in the
rain? It isn't supposed to be this way! I've hurt us both
in ways that words can't begin to fathom. I've hurt us both so
deeply that I don't think anything I can say or do could ever fix
us. And so in the end, there's nothing left to do but say
I'm sorry. And that I love you, Michael Leeds. I love you…
but I wish to God again and again that we'd never met. Because I
wouldn't be killing us both, now. If I could die remembering you, I
would die a happy man. But knowing that I die while you're out
there, remembering me and the happiness we used to have, and the pain
of my loss… I wish I could make you forget me, utterly. But
I can't. I can't. Well… it's taken an
eternity to write this letter. I can hear footsteps coming
down the hall. And I can hear the wheels. Little screeching
things, singing over linoleum floors in their little metal brackets…
Its time. Its
time for us to say goodbye. I love you, Michael Leeds. More
than life itself. Please don't forget me? Yours
eternally, Damien Caleb Reaper
Our good thing has come to an end.
He let the pen slip
from his hands, as the sob escaped him like a criminal in the night…
and as he heard the footsteps pause outside the door, buried his face
in his hands and began to weep, silently, for what he was about to
take from the man he loved the most.
Colonel Winters
cursed, as he ran full tilt across the grounds of San Quentin State
Prison, a folder in hand… As he looked at the watch on his
wrist.
How the entire thing had been so bungled, he wasn't
certain…
But it was his job to make sure that the program stayed
on target...
The Last Right had to be given as an option, even to
a monster like Damien Reaper…
The room was cold.
Isn't it funny,
how things in our lives work out? Isn't it funny how a
monster can receive an eleventh-hour, fifty-ninth-minute, fifty-ninth
second reprieve? Here I sit, on a transport to Eradius… With
three MPs sitting in front of me, and another one to either side…
Instead of lying dead in the grave. I was clinically dead for
five minutes, they said… before Colonel Winters made it to the
execution chambers. Apparently, every death row convict is
supposed to get something that I've never heard of before. Its
called the Last Right. It's a choice. To enlist in the armed
forces. To become an ODST for the UNSC Marine Corps… or to accept
sentence and die. If you enlist… apparently, you've got a chance
to redeem yourself… To get these marks off your arms and the chance
to live a normal life again. … I did what I had to do. But
I paid a heavy price. I won't get to write to you. I won't
get to call you. You'll never know, until I finish the program,
that I'm even still alive… And part of me thinks that I'll
never tell you. So in the end… A goodbye is still a
goodbye. Wish me luck. Damien Caleb Reaper
Much colder than he'd expected it to be – he shivered as the
first kiss of cold air touched his skin.
No one said a word to
him, as they wheeled the gurney before the one-way mirror. He caught
his reflection, and marveled at it for just a few moments. Pale and
drawn, with his eerie green-yellow eyes, with their ring of red, wide
and frightened. His lower lip quivered, faintly… his body shook,
just barely discernable from his vantage at least… His hands were
balled into tight fists, the knuckles having turned white…
Hands
on his arm, rolling up his sleeve… skin against his made him jump,
utter a soft hiss of fear…
"Any last words, Mister Reaper?"
The warden's voice sounded, from behind the glass.
Last words…?
He had ten thousand of them… but none of them, not one, were words
that the monsters on the other side of the glass deserved to hear.
"…
N…No." Was what he said instead, his voice a murderer's hiss,
the voice of a killer from a child's nightmares… and a faint
smile graced his lips. "… I have nothing to say."
"…
Carry out sentence-"
"Just a request, warden."
"…
Yes?"
"I find the idea of dying in my sleep to be wholly
abhorrent." He closed his eyes, smile still present. "But I find
the idea of being paralyzed and unable to do anything even more so.
Cut the pancuronium bromide? I think these people would rather see me
suffer anyways."
"… Request granted, Mister Reaper. Carry
out sentence."
A small alcohol swab swept over his skin, and he
shivered, closed his eyes for a moment or so as the needle pressed
against his flesh… then entered it smoothly.
First, an
injection sodium thiopental. A sedative, ironically…
And
then came the big guns… A much smaller dose than the sodium
thiopental…
For a few seconds, the thought occurred to him that
it didn't hurt at all.
Then the liquid fire lashed through his
veins, up his arm… he was dimly aware that he screamed…
Before
quick as darkness enveloped a room when the light was shut off, the
fire touched his heart, and he couldn't scream, couldn't breathe…
Pale eyes opened wide, as he tried to open his mouth to gasp in
air… before they fixed on the ceiling…
There's a stain up
there… The thought came sluggishly, through the liquid fire that
was spreading quickly through his body. Guess it leaks in here, when
it rains…
Then the fire slammed against the base of his skull,
and Damien Reaper's thoughts went silent…
The door
to the witness's viewing room slammed open, loudly.
The warden
blinked in surprise, at the military man illuminated in the doorway,
out of breath, terror in the officer's eyes…
And the warden
paled, before his hand fumbled for the intercom's
button.
"Temporary stay of execution! You have five minutes!"
Those within the room uttered cries of outrage and protest… one
woman burst into hysterical sobs…
And within the execution
chamber, attendants worked feverishly to revive the man on the
gurney.
Colonel Winters bit his lower lip, as he watched the scene
unfolding within… And once the man on the gurney gasped in a breath
of air that sounded more like a scream, arched his back in pain, the
Colonel stepped around the warden, to the door that linked the two
rooms…
Dearest Michael,
You won't ever get
this letter, but I'm writing it anyways.