The cell is dark and dingy, the corridors are silent and the clanging of doors is common to him. He eyes the scrawls made on the walls by pen nibs; the feathers that scatter the ground; the tattered photograph on the bed…they had been his for so long, and soon they would be worthless items – personal effects – and would hold no value.
He counts down the days and the hours leading up to the moment; an excruciatingly slow process that went on forever. It was just a cycle of torment, up and down and so forth. It never ended.
He remembers playing with a little girl, no more than ten, and recalls laughter and bright surroundings: it is so foreign to him.
He remembers two other women, working tirelessly and producing their end result in a cluttered laboratory. And in that tiny fragment of a memory, he recalls love and passion: another lost thing that died so long ago.
He remembers a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in magenta, and recalls admiration and respect: such a thing ceased to exist within him now.
The paper-thin walls that confine him provide nothing more than an excuse to remind him of who he is; it's just a pathetic barrier, he tells himself.
Mere words mean nothing to him and lectures and punishments are ignored in his mind. He cannot bring himself to care anymore.
He knows that no one will remember him when he's gone; he does not expect them to. After all, he left them to pursue this life of his and he does not regret it.
The door opens with a jingling of keys and a faceless, nameless figure approaches him, takes him by the arm and marches him outside.
He knows his time has come and he is grateful for it.
He is led up the wooden steps onto the platform and with a brief glance, gazes at the people watching him.
He sees the same people in his recollection of memories. The girl is a woman, and she is weeping and sobbing silently. Another woman glares at him, her piercing eyes meet his and she is quietly cursing his stupidity. The man regards him with contempt and looks away as soon as he notices him gazing at him.
The faceless man beside him mutters something to him and he picks apart the words slowly, relishing in his last few spoken utterances.
"Do not remember me."
He feels the ground beneath him fall and escape from his grasp, leaving his feet to dangle. The heaviness of his shackles weighs him down; dropping him to the ground. He exhales and shuts his eyes. A thousand words flood into his mind.
And finally, the last two sounds he hears in his life is the snapping of his neck and an ear-piercing scream; and he is a puppet, dead and lifeless.