WARNING: CONTAINS DETAILS OF DEATH
Everything within the prison cell was either dark, damp and dead. The half-blocked window towering 10 feet above the ground barely let a slither of light in. The few cold rays of day that did manage to pierce through, moved lethargically as the sun made its slow morning rise, eventually landing on the closed body bag lay limp across the concrete floor.
The room’s stillness broke. The bag jolted up, swaying from side to side gasping for air. Someone was inside it and very much alive.
A skeletal hand shimmied through the bag zip, struggling to pull it down and burst out. Cristin gasped for air, shivering as she lunged forward. She was completely naked. Clearing her frazzled hair from her face, she looked around for some sort of answer. Where was she? What was she naked? And what smelt like burnt toast? Her eyes were sunken into her skill, as if she hadn't slept for days. The skin on her arms was sickly - almost blue - the only colour on them were an array of bruises and red marks around her bicep and forearm.
She pressed it lightly. Ouch!
Before she could investigate any further, the lock of the cell door turned with a TUUU-TONKK, echoing around the room. Cristin bolted back, leaning on the bed for support; reaching out, she found a thin, moulded blanket to pull over herself. Petrified and shaking, the door squeaked open and a backlit silhouette peered inside.
“Wha….wha….wh--”, Cristin's throat burned. She couldn’t speak. Her voice was worn, as if she’d been screaming. She recalled a similar feeling after late nights out in her youth. Something told her the cause for it today was something far worse.
The silhouette stepped forward and Cristin’s shape softened as she saw a familiar face.
“Dr H….Herd. Wha…wha…?”
Doctor Herd moved swiftly, throwing a large shirt over to cover herself. Doctor Herd’s face was hardset with concern but his voice was as soft as the day they’d met. “It’s OK, don’t move fast,” he said, steadying her up onto the bed.
Cristin has been an inmate for 8 years and, not always being the most popular amongst her peers, had frequent visits to Doctor Herd. Herd was a passionate man across many interests, some of which he shared with Cristin. He was curious about all things he didn’t understand, criminals being one of them. He could be stubborn minded and closed off, but his observations of Cristin had helped him see the humanity beyond a person’s wrongdoings. Though the two rarely agreed, a kind of friendship had blossomed from their debates and Cristen believed this man truly cared for her.
“What…what…h-happened?”
Doctor Herd gave no reply, instead taking out a stethoscope and shoving it onto Cristin’s bare chest. Cristin jumped as the cold metal touched her.
“Hmm, sounds...steady,” Herd whispered to himself, almost disappointed.
Cristin moved her head, trying to catch his gaze, but they were like opposing magnets; wherever she moved, he darted the other direction. Why was he acting like this, and what was she doing in a bodybag? “Herd? Please, c-can you just--”
“HERD!” a voice boomed from afar, startling Cristin yet again. Two uniformed guards looked in from the hallway, accompanied by a tall, lanky figure between them. Cristin squirmed, trying to see around Herd but the figures remained unclear. “Diagnosis, now if you will?”
Herd stood, his eyes down at the floor. He twisted the stethoscope between his fingers, “The…the patient is…”. Herd cleared his throat. He seemed scared.
Cristin coughed, successfully stealing his gaze. Finally he saw her, and she him, but something was different. His eyes were red, from tiredness or tears? In this case, it was both. He stepped back, clearing his throat and returning his gaze to the audience eagerly waiting beyond the door.
“...the patient is steady…vital signs normal…inmate is eligible for condemned procedure.”
Herd’s words made no sense to her but shot a fear through her unlike anything she’d known.
“Thank you,” the suited figure responded from the hallway. “Guards, take her to prep.”
The guards moved inside, intercepting her before she could hear another sound; ask another question. Cristin was pulled from her cell, shoved and dragged by the guards with her feet hovering above the ground as they led her out the cell and through these unfamiliar halls. In all her time at Sterling State Prison, she had never seen any of these rooms. Where was she?
Cristin’s face made contact with a set of double doors, BASH, as the guards shoved her face first through and into an open area. An area that Cristin knew very well. Cell Block H, her housing unit for the last 18 months. Above her were 4 floors of cells where other inmates peered down, seemingly with excitement as she was ushered through.
In a place this size there was no such thing as a whisper; the inmates' mutters echoed off the walls and right down to Cristen. “It’s her!”, “I told you she had more in her.” ,”What’s it now, Fifty twooooooo!?”
Almost as soon as they’d entered the great hall, Cristin was led out, to yet another unknown hallway and onwards through security doors, elevators, dim walkways until finally they reached their destination. A thick, vault style door guarded by four officers, all heavily armed. Cristin did not recognise the uniforms they wore, or the faces of any of the men.
Cristin was handed over and led through a final set of doors to see a room she had only heard about through hearsay and rumour. She had never seen it for herself. Or so she believed.
Cristin looked ahead, sandwiched between the two enormous guards, staring at a single chair within the room, surrounded by an array of medical tables and electrical equipment. This was the execution wing, the final destination of death row inmates. But why did she know this?
Cristin was indeed a criminal, but had never been a truly ‘bad’ person; rather an array of ‘wrong place, wrong time’ scenarios, gaslighting boyfriends, abusive girlfriends, manipulative family members and a brief addiction had led her down a path she never felt she could escape. The worst of which however happened to be a case of manslaughter and additional casualties to a young mother and her two kids, all of whom ended up dead. Cristin had been assigned a cheap lawyer who promised to get her free and inevitably failed. When going through trial, Cristin’s previous ‘associates’ had pinned a number of other crimes on her, leading to a final judgement. Death row.
Across the room a suited figure entered, closely followed by a still timid Doctor Herd. Understanding Herd’s behaviour now, Cristin desperately wanted to speak but her body failed her.
“Well Mz. Colin. We meet again,” the suited figure spat in Cristin’s direction, stepping into the light. “I don’t suppose you remember me? You rarely do.”
Cristin glared. She’d never seen this man in all her time alive, and yet there was something familiar about him.
“Needless to say,” he continued, “I’d like to get through this quickly so let's not have a fuss this time. Gentlemen,” he gestured to the chair, following up with a note, “and make it tight this time.”
Cristin was spun into the chair. She tried to fight but was still too weary, her throat felt closed off and the smell of burning stank out from the chair beneath her. Cristin gasped, the leather tightened over her arm. She glanced down, noting the straps lay perfectly over the bruises both on her wrist and bicep. Her chest heaved, rocking her back and forth as she struggled to brath at the realisation. This wasn’t the first time she’d been here.
“Nathanial, please,” Dr Herd begged.
“Oh enough Herd, lets get a move on. We all know we’ll be back soon enough,” the suited man spat, lowering himself beside Cristin. He slapped a set of paperwork on her as she was a make-shift table, clicking his pen as he read. “Please confirm. You are Mz. Cristin Ursula Collins? Inmate 6466?”
Cristin nodded.
“And, you acknowledge you were sentenced to death row for which you are familiar with the procedure?”
Cristin thought, “How could I be…f-familiar with it?”
The man sighed, removing his glasses, “Convenient. You know,” he began, sliding his chair back and crossing his arms. “It's a curious case, beyond the obvious. In all the times we’ve been here you always know your good friend, Dr Herd. But not once do you recall the sentencing, myself or even your signature.” The man turned the paperwork to face Cristin and pointed to a small squiggle in the bottom left of the page. That was indeed her signature. Which meant she’d read and signed these papers. But when?
“I d…I don’t…”
“Don’t recall? No, you never do,” he snarked. “The problem Mz Collins, is the system has rules and you were indeed sentenced to death but in your case, if you still can’t figure it out,” the man clenched his jaw, whipping the paper from Cristin’s lap, “you just won’t stay dead.”
Cristin sank into the chair, “But…no-no. If you killed me b-before,” he voice quivered, forcing herself to speak, “t-t-then I should be let go. I’ve done the sentence.”
The man chuckled, “If only.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stood, pacing around the chair. “And there might have been a way, had it not been for your appointed guardian. The person insisting we return here, despite myself, the federal teams and heads of state themselves wanting to end this.”
“W-Who is…is…”
“Don’t tell me you forgot that detail as well. No matter, you can ask him. Can’t she?” The man asked, stepping aside to turn to Doctor Herd. “Well Herd…what do you say? Can we stop or do you insist on pushing this insanity further?”
Cristen tried to pull herself up as Herd stepped over, a different look in his eye now. Of course, he'd always been a curious man to the point not understanding something would drive him insane. Cristin must have not thought much of having him as a guardian at her execution - why would she, if anything a familiar face would have made it easier. But who could have predicted this peculiar occurrence? Who could have guessed that given the chance, Herd would easily choose his own curiosity over another person's suffering.
But Herd showed no sign of swaying. Though his eyes were stained with marks of emotion, his mind had been made up since the first time they re-attempted the procedure. Without hesitattion he replied, "We push on. Death Row, attempt 52. Lets begin..."