THIS IS STRICTLY FANTASY!!!
DO NOT DARE EVEN THINK OF DOING ANYTHING LIKE THIS!
THE AUTHOR STRONGLY CONDEMNS ANY KIND OF VIOLENCE AGAINST ANY AND ALL HUMAN BEINGS, ESPECIALLY THE INNOCENT ONES!

Enjoy responsibly.

Emma’s Execution

October 5th, 2008

I haven’t written in this diary for long, but today was a day worth mentioning. I guess I’ll have to start from the beginning won’t I? I got a job at Attica prison, near New York City. It wasn’t the best or prettiest job in the world. I was a prison security guard assigned to the death row. I had room and board there and only went home on the weekends. I didn’t really have much choice; it was either that or being unemployed. The economy has been so sluggish since George W. Bush’s election in 2000 and has only become worse since his re-election in 2004.
Since then, his administration and the Republican majority in Congress have enacted a multitude of laws that have brought our country back at least a hundred years in terms of civil rights! New laws made just about anything a capital offence, and only the President was able to grant pardons. Hell would freeze over before Bush pardons anyone!
The point is that there were now plenty of jobs available in prisons because of the increased number of inmates in general and on death row in particular. My job was simple: I would usually be assigned to watch over the death row inmates overnight and escort them to their execution when the time comes (since we do our executions at dawn, it was the last task I had to do before signing off).
The night shifts were long and tedious, but the executions I got to partake in were oddly exciting. Seeing people snuff it, whether by bullets or electric currents or the hangman’s noose is an unforgettable experience. It’s almost like you can only fully understand life once you see it end. I’m not sure if that’s the correct definition of ‘irony’, but the word does come to mind.
Though every execution I got to see was somewhat exciting, they all pale in comparison to what happened last night. I had traded shifts with a colleague just so that we could break the monotony. He went to my regular spot, and I went to his: the women’s wing of death row.
There was only one inmate there that night, which made it easy – easy to do the job, and easy to fall asleep on the job. To keep myself occupied, I walked down the hall to the sole occupied cell to get a look at this inmate. I was shocked.
She was sitting on her bed, reading a thick book, dressed in the regulation prison robe. It was a distinguishing feature of the reforms to the prison system: all inmates now wore only a knee-length one-piece khaki-coloured robe. Nothing more – and that includes any forms or underwear, footwear, or headwear. I always thought it looked like a potato sack with holes cut out for the arms and head. But tonight this otherwise plain uniform looked cute on the girl before me. She was about 5’1” and had long light-brown hair that fell a few inches below her shoulders. She had a cute round face, brown eyes, pale skin, and freckles. Her nose was slightly tilted to the right. Her book was in her lap and her feet propped up on the shelf that doubled as a desk, revealing two soles stained by the filth of the prison floors. The rest of her wasn’t much cleaner either since inmates were only allowed to take a cold shower once a month. Though I was used to seeing inmates dirty and smell, this was special. Through the layer of grime, I could feel the gentle glow of soft, young skin.
And she was young, far too young to be sentenced to death. She seemed just about my age: mid twenties, give or take a year. It was such a shock for me. Most women I saw on death row were old and hardened serial killers, but this one… she was young and pretty and innocent-looking. I know looks can be misleading, but my heart melted. I couldn’t help thinking that I should be having drinks with her in some cafe instead of watching her await her death. Almost instinctively, I started a conversation
For some reason – probably because we were the same age – she was actually willing to talk to me. I soon had all the details, even her favourite record, movie, and book. Her name was Emma Spencer; she was 23 years old and sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. She was a political activist, a thorn in the government’s side. Eventually her apartment got raided on trumped-up terrorism charges. Of course, raids like that rarely ever turn up any substantial evidence and were only meant as a scare tactic, but this time the SWAT team found a closet full of marijuana plants and a list of all frequent customers. Under pressure to clamp down on ‘crazy anarchists’ such as Emma, the courts decided that was enough evidence to land Emma on Death Row.
Before we knew it, it was three o’clock in the morning. We had been talking, laughing, and doing all the things young people like us did in normal circumstances. We seemed to have forgotten that we were on death row, that she was sentenced to death and that I was a prison guard. That’s when there was a lull in the conversation. An awkward pause really. She gently stretched her leg and put her foot, as dirty as it was, softly on my lap. Another awkward pause. I tried not to catch her eye. Staring stupidly at the wall facing me, I slowly put my hand on her shin. No movement on her part. No protest either. “What am I doing?” I thought. I knew very well where my thoughts and hormones would take me and that I had to stop them, but instead I just started rubbing her ankle with my thumb, softly, sensually.
Still silence reigned, this time less awkward. Her foot was on my thigh and my hand was on her shin and my thumb was rubbing her ankle. The silence was still there, but so very different, only disturbed by her short sensual breaths.
I don’t know how, when or why it happened, but we both just lost it. The sexual tension in that cell had become unbearable. I grabbed her foot and started kissing it, then her ankle, then her shin, then her knees. Soon I had made my way up to her wet clit, which she had already started rubbing. I did her with my tongue as her hands pulled on my hair. She moaned and moaned and moaned but we did not care, we were alone on the ward and I was the only staff member within earshot.
I cannot describe it all. And I need not, for I will never forget it.
An hour later, I had lit a cigarette and stared out the window. I didn’t realise how inconvenient it is to smoke through prison bars. We held each other in silence for a while, and then she said:
“My execution’s this morning, by the way.”
“What?!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. She let all this happen and conveniently “forgot” to tell me these were the last hours of her life? I was speechless, I didn’t know what to say. I think I tried to mutter some words of consolation, but god knows what I said.
“Sorry,” she said. “Maybe it’s best that you leave me alone.”
She looked like she wanted to be alone, so I walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead and walked out of the room quietly.
Several hours passed. At 5:30am, the priest showed up. I told him where the inmate’s cell was and sped him on his way. Within 15 minutes, he was walking out, addressing me only with a curt nod. I picked up my phone and dialled the execution room.
“She’s ready,” I said.
“So is the noose, bring her down,” replied the voice from the other end.
Without further ado, I walked over to Emma’s cell. She was standing in the middle, staring down at her little bare feet. She looked up at me as I approached.
“Ready?” I asked.
She sniffled a little, wiped a lone tear away, took a deep breath and nodded. I cuffed her wrists behind her back, explaining that that was proper procedure. I then led her away from the cell and down the corridor. We were both very silent. The only sounds you could here were the light tapping sound of my shoes hitting the floor, and the soft thud of Emma’s dirty bare soles against the tiles. Every step she took bringing her closer to her end.
The execution chamber was two floors down. It was a bare room with cement walls used for all types of executions. There was the electric chair at one end of the room, the post for the firing squad was at the opposite end (just in front of the blood-splattered wall), and a noose suspended in the very middle of the room, beneath it, a small one foot-tall wooden platform.
For the first time, Emma saw the instrument that would bring her death. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her breathing suddenly became shallow. I could see the fear in her eyes. I could tell she could now taste death.
I grabbed her elbow.
“Ms. Spencer, come on,” I said, maintaining decorum for the sake of the executioner who was already in the room, waiting. I tugged harder on Emma’s elbow and she finally took a step towards the centre of the room, where the executioner awaited with the restraints. At first I uncuffed her. Then the executioner bound her hands in front of her using thick black rope. Then he stood behind her and pulled her elbows as far back as they could go before he tied them together with similar rope. Finally, he got down and tied Emma’s bare feet so that she would not kick around as she fought the noose.
Now Emma looked more frightened than ever. She was shaking. Her eyes were wide open and her mouth made into a grimace as if she were about to cry. Before I could say anything to her, the executioner was back on the platform behind her, ready to slip her head through the noose. She whimpered again, more loudly than before, as if embarrassed and scared at the same time. I soon found out why: a soft hiss followed by the distinct sound of trickling water gave it away. A great wet patch was taking shape on Emma’s robe just below her waist and a small puddle of urine amassed on the platform.
“Jesus,” said the executioner, “now I have to wash my shoes!” But he didn’t waste his time. As soon as the noose was around Emma’s neck, he jumped down and went over to the pulley that controls the length of the noose. He slowly turned the crank until all the slack was out of the rope. I had forgotten how the hangings work in this prison: the rope has to be taught because we use the short drop method. To carry out the execution, the executioner pulls on a chain that is attached to a pin that held together the platform Emma was standing on. When you pull on the chain, the pin goes out and the platform collapses on itself, leaving the inmate suspended in thin air.
As the executioner pulled all the slack out of the rope, Emma squealed as it cut into her neck. She was getting her first taste of what dying will be like. The executioner then went over to his position. He turned on the camera that records all executions for official purposes. He then took the chain in his hand.
“Camera is rolling,” he said. The official witnesses who were in a room on the other side of the prison watching live video feed had no idea what it was like. The digitalized sound they heard on the speakers could not hit them like the cries that would soon pierce my heart. They could not see the subtle details of Emma’s crying face. They could not smell her urine. They would not be able to feel the subtleties in her agony. Her final agony, only moments away…
The executioner was reading the sentence: “By the order of the court, your sentence will be carried…” the executioner’s voice droned on but I paid no mind, my attention was all on Emma. Now she was crying, screaming “No! Please, no!” The crying, wailing, desperate, urine-drenched Emma who was so close to the end now no longer looked like the brave girl I slept with only a few hours ago. Her life now seemed more insignificant than ever.
There was a moment of silence. The Executioner had finished reading all the formalities. Dead silence. Then she cried out,
“I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna diiiiiii—”
Too late, her words were cut short by the noose. The executioner had pulled the pin out from the platform and it crumbled to the ground, leaving Emma hanging by the neck. Her cry became a moan as her voice box was being compressed. Her neck was stretching, her jaws clenched shut by the rope. Her face was contorted in agony. She was trying to scream, but couldn’t. I imagine it feels like being ripped apart.
It was almost complete silence but for the slight creaking of the ropes and Emma’s muffled moan. If I tried hard enough, I’m sure I could hear death itself approaching.
As I had seen other inmates do it before her, Emma’s body went stiff. She did not kick her legs around. When the rope bites your neck, all the muscles in your body tense up helplessly.
Floating there, with nothing below her little bare feet to support her weight, with a rope tightening around her neck, she was going to die.
Thirty seconds now since the platform came crashing down. Emma’s feet hovered aimlessly a mere six inches off the ground. I was surprised she was still conscious. I could tell because I could hear her gnawing her teeth. Surely she couldn’t last much longer. A human can survive several minutes without air, but a properly positioned noose also cuts blood flow to the brain. Some pass out in less than ten seconds. Emma was putting up a very good fight. But no matter how hard you try, after thirty seconds, her vision must have been very cloudy by now and she must have been feeling very light-headed. At this point, she was beyond pain. The light-headedness at this point was like an unbelievable high, like floating between the world of the living and that of the dead.
A minute now Emma’s toes now wiggled slightly. She ventured a few half-hearted kicks but. Who knows what she was trying to accomplish, there was really no hope at this point. Maybe that was precisely it. She knew it was the end. Those desperate kicks are a sure sign that the inmate knows it’s over. She kicked once again. Her body wriggled like a worm on a hook. She clenched and unclenched her fists, she flexed her bare feet over and over again, pointing her toes to the ground and then lifting up her entire foot and spreading her toes, thus giving me a glimpse of her dirty soles.
It was one last dance before death took her. Nothing can stop it now, dear Emma, nothing.
Her face was contorted. Her cheeks red with stationary blood. Her grimace reached its apex, and then slowly, ever so slowly, they relaxed. One by one, her muscles relaxed. Her face came back to normal, her fists unclenched, her feet hung limp, and finally, her sphincters relaxed as well. Urine dripped slithered down her legs.
Her toes were still, allowing drops of urine to drip off and form a puddle on the floor beneath her body. Her body passed some gas. Then I heard the distinct noise of faeces passing through an anal sphincter. Small bits of shit fell to the floor. The rest I assume was smeared on her ass and thighs.
The only movement was a gentle swinging motion of her entire body, yet a glance at her face would tell anyone that she was as good as dead. So this is what death looked like, in all its glory: a limp body covered in excreta. Yet I could not help but see the beauty in Emma’s glazed eyes, in her expressionless face, and in her innocently swinging bare feet.
I was so lost in my daydreams that I hardly noticed the executioner pass a stethoscope under Emma’s robe and declare her time of death for the camera. Just over two minutes had passed since he had pulled on the chain. He then shut the camera off and left the room. I was to stay in the execution room and guard the body as it remains hanging for the regulation hour.
I was alone…
With Emma’s body…

Copyright by Hangman X (2005).

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