The old incandescent lightbulb gave off more heat than light as a moth flicked against it in a slow rhythmic beat.
'They say death row is the loneliest place on Earth. That was a lie. It was never silent here. It was loud. Not in volume, but in presence. Madness didn't scream. It whispered, and joked. It laughed at the silence.'
The final hall where the condemned slept their last days was full of whispers that crawled under skin like worms. Mark sat on the rusted bench bolted to the wall of his cell, back straight, fingers laced on his lap, staring ahead at nothing. His cell; C-13, was flanked by two others.
On his left, Brother Elijah. On his right, Big Sam.
"Elijah, you bald freak," Big Sam growled, voice thick and lazy like melting tar, "Tell me again, what did you name them? The twelve you sacrificed."
Brother Elijah, who was meditating cross-legged on the floor of his cell, opened his eyes. They gleamed like shattered glass in moonlight, "I did not sacrifice, brother. I liberated. And they named themselves, each one in the ceremony of truth."
His voice was melodic, too calm, "Would you like their names again, Samuel? Perhaps I'll start with the twins this time. They screamed the longest."
Mark didn't flinch, didn't speak. He exhaled softly through his nose.
Big Sam chuckled, "Yeah, I like that part. The screaming. That's the best part, ain't it?"
Brother Elijah closed his eyes again, humming some hymn only he knew.
Mark let his mind drift. Back to the alley, years ago.
…
A man, a murderer, knife in hand and a girl's body lay bloodied in the damp asphalt.
Mark has found this man a while ago. He tracked the clues he left behind, found more evidence by breaking into others' houses without legal backing. The means did not matter, however righteous the process of the police may be, if killers are let go, it was all moot.
After confirming he was the killer, Mark stalked him. Day and night, waiting for him to kill again. It was part of his code. No matter how great the evidence, he would only kill after he saw a murder with his own eyes.
And there it was, his chance. Mark had stepped in. One clean slice across the throat. Justice served. That was how it had started. One life for another, an eye for an eye.
But then; a boy. A wide-eyed boy who saw him from the other end of the alley. He'd seen Mark, who had just removed his mask and was preparing to take care of the body.
A mistake on his part no doubt. Wrong place, at the wrong time. An innocent, a clean soul.
Mark clenched his hands. That moment shattered everything. He'd tried to bury it, to hide it. But the panic… the spiral.
The next week was a blur of blood. No code, no justice. Just survival. Twelve dead. Twelve, mostly innocent souls. And the cops caught him with black plastic bags and bleach-stained gloves.
…
"And what about you, Sammy?" Elijah purred, "Tell our silent friend again. How many did you kill in that haunted house, hmm?"
"Four!" Big Sam grinned, revealing a chipped tooth, "They thought I was part of the show. You know, chains and fake blood and all that. Didn't even scream right away. The third one even laughed. She thought it was an act. Until I broke her jaw."
Mark stood up and stretched his arms slowly. The guards were on their rounds. He watched them pass like ghosts behind the reinforced glass.
Elijah spoke again, this time directed toward Mark, "And what about you, Judge Mark? Will you ever share your tales with the congregation?"
Mark turned; his eyes steady, "I'm not here to entertain."
Big Sam barked a laugh, "That's what you think this is? Entertainment? Naw, preacher here thinks we're all in God's waiting room. And me? I'm just here for the stories."
Mark turned back to the wall. His gaze drifted to the stain on the concrete; the reddish-brown mark that had been there since before he arrived.
Forty eight guilty souls, delivered. Then one innocent. Then twelve more, guilty of nothing but proximity. He'd broken his own code. And after that, he had nothing left to believe in.
The others could lie to themselves. Elijah, with his divine justifications. Sam, with his predator's pride.
'But me? I remember. I don't run from it. The dead haunt me every night. Not with screams like in the movie, but with silence. The same silence that fills the cellblock when the lights go out. This is true punishment, one I deserve. Not the cage or the solitude,' Mark took in a breath as it finally hit him.
Everything he stood for, his code, his justice, all slipped through his fingers. Now, all that was left was the never-ending darkness within him, eating away at what was left; regret.
"Ha~ Ha-ha-ha~" Mark ended up chuckling at his own sanity.
"Tomorrow's Friday," Sam said, "Someone's getting the chair~"
"Maybe it'll be you," Elijah sang.
"Nah," Sam grinned, "I'm entertainment."
Mark closed his eyes. Maybe this Friday would be his. Or not. He didn't care anymore.