Im waiting in the cold cell,
When the bell begins to chime,
Reflecting on my past life,
And it doesnt have much time,
Because at five o clock they take me to the gallows pole,
The sands of time for me are running low
Iron Maiden
What does a man think about in the last minutes of his life? When you know you are about to die what images scramble up from the depths of despair to burn themselves into your retinas? What thoughts tear through the chaos of memories to grasp the conscious mind? Who can say, but the dying man.
Seifer sits in the dank, damp, cell. Full of the darkness that crept from the corners to drive the light from the putrid air, and hide the mildew on the walls. It reeks with the foul stench of death and despair. It echoes with the moans of lost souls and the wailing of the terrified prisoners. Locked away without hope, chained next to fear, and fed with the stale taste of death, topped with the spice of torture, garnished with the fruit of wrath, and washed down by the juice of madness. Here in the dungeons the screams and shrieks climb up from the very burning pits of hell to lodge themselves in the minds of the condemned. The first glimpse of their future damnation.
Seifer sits in the darkness, and reflects upon his past life. He is filled with blame, rage and hate. He clings to his sanity by a thread. He chokes back the screams that threaten to tear from his throat and wrent the suffocating black. Concentrate. Using the discipline attained by his training he, attempts to calm his seething mind. How natural that his mind would turn to the events leading to his demise. Thoughts that threaten to unleash the beast within him. He has no remorse, why should he? He was not to blame. If he ever made the wrong decision it was because he was forced to. They had manipulated and controlled him, hadnt they? He hadnt wanted to, had he? Had he? No, of course he hadnt. They had forced him to, and now he was paying the ultimate price for something that wasnt his fault, right?
NO! These thoughts would only lead to unhappiness, he wished to enjoy the last moments of his miserable existence before his death at the hands of a bitter and unjust world. In an attempt to gain control of his mind he concentrated on his earliest memories. But in every one, his arch-nemesis glowers back at him. Always better, always more respected, always more liked, without even trying. Stealing his woman, stealing his weapon, stealing his life. He shouldve been the decorated hero, returning triumphantly home, not the scorned and fallen foe. Once again, he focuses his tormented mind, drilling into his subconscious until he finally pierces through the fog.
Past is military training. Past his the orphanage. Past the laughs, and the tears, and the stunts, and the memories. Till finally he came to a point where he could continue no more. He pulled his tattered, frayed coat tighter about him, closed his eyes against the hungry darkness, and watched memories that he had not known hed had play out before him.
At first They came in quick snatches and glimpses. Bursts of light and sound. A crying, pleading female. An angry shouting male. Sounds of beating. Fear. Then it smoothed out, a stooped figure holding a bundle, kneeling on a dock. The boats moored their seemed strange and unfamiliar, but then he realized that this was nearly twenty years ago, and he began recognize some of them from textbooks. The stooped figure was crying softly and whispering something indiscernible. A pattern of muffled words that repeated itself over and over again. That faded, and then they were in what looked like the cargo hold of a ship, cowering beneath a fuming captain. That in turn faded to a flaming furnace, where the stooped woman slaved away, shoveling coal for hours on end, always whispering the same words. Next the pleading woman and her bundle were thrown crying onto the sands of an unfamiliar beach, remote and deserted but for a lighthouse on a nearby point. The woman was still crying, and huddling over her bundle. Still whispering the same words, between hacking coughs that wracked her fragile frame. That scene blurred yet again, and he saw the woman place the bundle in the sheltered entrance of the lighthouse, still muttering, but now her sobs were clearer. She turned slowly and walked slowly into the waves until she was gone.
As booming footsteps forced their way into Seifer's mind a single phrase of the whispers that still echo in his mind become clear, and roar through his mind like a hurricane.
Hallowed be thy name.
He rises serenely and follows the guards up the stone steps, tears streaming in rivers down his cheeks. Each moment seemed an eternity, and in each eternity his thoughts race. She had given her life for him. What would she say now? His pride shattered, and unblinded by it, he sees his life for the first time. And he is ashamed.
It is a gift to be executed at dawn. A gift, to let the hell bound soul witness the beauty and power of the rising sun one last time. As the sun slips her pink skirt over the horizon, clouds of frosty breath hiss from Seifers mouth and nose. As he steps up onto the platform in front of the bloodthirsty executioner and the jeering onlookers, his thoughts are still miles away. He no longer blames them for what he realizes were his mistakes. His mother had given him that much.
The hooded man approaches him with the bag.
Wait.
The man nods slowly and steps back. Seifer turns and looks into the rising sun, his tear-streaked face softened by understanding.
Thank you mother, he whispers, then he turns back to the hangman, Im ready.
The big man pulls the burlap sack over his head, and leads him across the platform to the gallows. He feels the noose go over his neck, and tenses for a split second as the floor goes out from under him.
The crack of his neck echoed over the silent crowd, and as they bowed their heads in a moment of recognition, under the bag, Seifer's lips formed their last words as his final breath escaped him.
Hallowed by thy name.