On Christmas night the new inmate arrived. He kept his blond hair bowed, but the guards knew already what kind of man he'd be: blue-eyed, seemingly innocent, and likely in for some petty crime. That is what their first impulse was, of course. But this man was up to be executed in the lap of the old electric chair, so something must be wrong with him.
The guards who did not have to perform the regular inspection, sat around the gray windows, puffing clouds of smoke and staring evenly at the young man: Alfred F. Jones. Fine, powdery snow covered his shoulders and stuck to his eyelashes. His eyes were blue, as they guessed, and from the shy way he spoke and uncertainty of his actions, he really was just a lost puppy. The guards instantly either hated him or felt brief sympathy.
Alfred went to his cell, nearly knocking his head on the door as he towered over six feet. He bent down and shuffled in, sitting quietly on the flat bed. He stared at the wall, his eyes dulling by the moment. He listened to the instructions belted at him by the warden. He nodded when he had to, he mumbled "sir" when he had to, and he even offered the warden a smile. The warden turned stiffly towards the other guards, collecting the files.
"What a strange man, what's he in for?" Billy, the most senior of the guards, inquired in a casual way that barley hid his curiosity.
The warden, the lines on his face tightening, sighed. "Murder of two entire families," he stated, and turned away. His back was beginning to arch forwards and his steps grew smaller and smaller, until soon they would be a crawl. The other guards realized this. The warden slipped behind the heavy metal doors to take care of paperwork. They could see him through the barred window, cloaked in golden lamplight and occasionally casting his eyes towards the narrow hallway.
There were no fights in this building, unless it was between the guards. Each prisoner was locked tightly behind his bars in a single cell. Each prisoner kept to himself because he knew his death was coming close. Sometimes a woman was sentenced to the chair, but usually she went elsewhere. A rare occasion came and went with a woman named Sarah Dubbing who sat down on her throne, still screaming and throwing fists, just as Alfred stood up in court and admitted his guilt.
Now there was only Alfred, still staring at his shadows, and the howling wind outside.
I do not own Hetalia.
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