The room fell silent. The kind of silence that made it hard to breathe. The only sound was the monotonous ticking of the clock, slowly counting down the time until my execution.
My skin felt as if it were being eaten alive by ants, but the straightjacket made it impossible for me to move. The straightjacket was white, from the floor to the ceiling was also white. Everything in this goddamn room was white. Even the clock on the wall was entirely white.
I hated it. Seeing the same color everywhere I turned my head was maddening.
"You were never loved."
The only thing that wasn't entirely white was the figment of my imagination that always seized the moment to torture me.
"It's the truth. No one loved you. Why else would you be here? After all this time, not one person came to plead your case—no family, no friends, not even a girlfriend. No one cares about you."
I closed my eyes, trying to remind myself that he wasn't real and that the moment I started arguing with my own mind was the moment I completely lost my sanity.
"He isn't real," I repeated over and over.
For the last couple of days, I had repeated it constantly—it was a living hell trying to keep a sane mind after being locked in this place for so long. But my torture would be over soon; just 15 minutes, and I would be done with this godforsaken life.
"You think God has forsaken you? Just look a little closer, and you will see that all you are searching for has been right here all along."
"I'm not searching for anything! Certainly not God!"
Just like that, I had broken my silence. After so long, I had finally given in.
The old man seated across from me smiled. His wrinkled face brightened just from my acknowledging his presence. But he wasn't real; he couldn't be. No one else seemed to be able to see him.
He appeared like a ghost, resembling a skeleton wrapped in human flesh. His eyes were milky white, and I suspected he was blind. His arms looked like twigs that could be snapped with the slightest force.
"What a waste," he mumbled, his voice dripping with pity. "How could a man value his own life so little that he doesn't care whether he lives or dies? You were wronged; doesn't it make you feel at least a little angry?"
He was met with silence. I had no interest in speaking with him any further, so he continued to prattle on.
"The judge decided your judgment before he even held the trial. All the jurors hated you; their eyes were filled with contempt just looking at you. And that lawyer of yours? He graduated at the bottom of his class from one of the worst law schools in the country. There wasn't anything remotely just in the way you were treated."
Justice? My life lost every sense of justice the moment my parents were killed. From there, my life spiraled downward into hell. And now, at the ripe age of 15, it would come to an end.
"You killed the man who murdered your parents, and now—"
"Now I'm being rewarded for it."
"Death is not a reward."
"It is whatever I choose it to be. I won't wallow in self-pity like you want me to."
The old man sighed, his face turning remorseful.
"I only wish for you to make your peace with this world."
"Then your wish has come true," I countered. "I made my peace with this world the moment I plunged the knife into that politician's stomach. The moment I watched the life drain from his eyes, I gave up on this world entirely."
The old man sighed again, this time shaking his head.
"That politician… now he was loved. His wife and kids showed up every day during the many trials. The whole city wept for his death. His memorial service alone was enough to cause a citywide lockdown. While you, on the other hand, are painted as a criminal degenerate by the media. They said you had a violent past and that you preyed on women and children."
"Lies! All of it lies!" I roared, spit flying from my mouth.
Damn it, this bastard will cause me to get muzzled again.
"I've never hurt anyone. Not before… not before him. My parents were the kindest people I have ever met; I loved them with all of my heart, and that bastard…" My body trembled with rage just thinking about it. "That bastard struck them down off the sidewalk like they were nothing—like they were nothing but ants in his path. My parents never got justice, and neither will he!"
"But he will," the old man said ominously.
My eyes narrowed at him. What is he talking about?
"Haven't you realized? Your death means justice for the politician's murder."
No.
He was wrong. My death means nothing. Just like he was wrong about me never being loved. My parents loved me… I know they did.
"If your parents really loved you, they never would have taken all those debts in your name."
No, he's wrong; they only did it because they were desperate.
"If they really loved you, the last words from their lips wouldn't have been your older brother's name. It would have been the son that stood by them all along. Your parents merely tolerated you."
I suddenly became lightheaded; my vision blurred as everything around the room turned into a pixelated haze. But why? I knew he was lying, so why… why is my chest tightening? Why is my breath so shallow?
I glanced up at the clock.
"Just five more minutes remaining," I muttered to myself. "Five more minutes, and it will all be alright."
"You're not the most good-looking. In fact, your looks are below average. You're socially awkward, oftentimes indifferent to those around you, and you have the athleticism of a newborn toddler. Your only redeeming quality is your thirst for knowledge. Your need to explore the unexplored is the only saving grace you have."
I glanced at the clock again. The time was ticking slowly. It was now seconds away from my execution.
"My last advice to you is this: accept your life for what it has been. Accept the meaning of what your death means and die how a man is meant to die."
BZZZ!
A low buzz came from the door before it slowly cracked open. Standing at the door were two guards. Their faces portrayed no emotion as they informed me that it was time and led me away to another room.
The room where I would meet my end had five other guards inside. Except these ones covered their faces with black masks. My lips went dry when I saw the rifles they were holding in their hands. Right then and there, the realization sank in.
This is it.
My legs instantaneously turned to jelly, and I felt a crushing pain in my chest.
"He's having a heart attack!" one of the guards shouted.
"Get him up against the wall!" another commanded.
The firing squad was relentless; they were adamant about making a spectacle out of my death. Just beyond the window was the family of the man I killed, his parents, his wife, his children. They wanted me to feel remorse for what I had done, but looking at their faces only dredged up something dark inside of me. Something I didn't even know existed.
I should've killed them too.
The thought was so repulsive that I wanted to throw up, but it was also so visceral that it made me a bit regretful.
It was my own selfishness speaking. I was going to die, and I simply wished to take as many people as I could with me.
I leaned against the wall, barely supporting my weight as my knees desperately wanted to crumble. I didn't look at the firing squad aiming their weapons at me. Instead, I looked past them at the family, desperately wishing for my death.
The gunfire was like an orchestra, and when the bullet pierced my heart, it was the finale—the end of a life that served no purpose.