Hey all, I’m still working on the live story. I want to get some more details ironed out and have enough time to edit so those posts will begin next week. To hold you over, here’s a story I wrote years ago, maybe in college.
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Y’know, my granddaddy used to say the things worth waiting for sometimes take the longest to get here. Like any overzealous bastard, I just thought they were the ramblings of a lonely old widower. Hell, there was a point where I actually believed I knew what the man was talking about. One of those moments where maturity and naivety blurred into one. Though, it wasn’t until this morning, when I was being led to the death house in Camp F that it truly hit me. It hit me so hard, my legs crumpled like accordions, the wind in my lungs left me like geese that had been startled by hounds. The guards on either side of me held me tighter by my elbows and carried me along. Despite their questioning glares, a crooked smile cracked its way across my face for the first time in a long time; a smile a place I haven’t been to in a while. A place that I missed so much I questioned it ever existed in the first place.
Early that morning, they asked me what I’d like for my last meal. I’d been thinking of this moment since the judge told me I had a one-way ticket up the green mile, and I was going to stick to the house special, but I decided on the fly to ask for Sheppard’s pie, fruit salad, and warm apple cider. They explained what would be going on for the rest of the day. I declined visits from a priest and my daddy but agreed to meet with the detective who wished to see me for one last good row. I lowered myself into the chair and thought about things to waste time.
Like anyone who was lucky enough to make it upwards in age, I reached a point in my life where I found a way to live with expansive loneliness that just comes from being alive. I used to think it was because we never really knew who we ourselves were. We knew the piece we got from mama and the piece we got from daddy, but as for the piece that was strictly us, we could never really catch wind of it, making us long for a whole image that we could never see. That longing eventually gets covered in our minds, forgotten as we add layers upon layers of memories and experiences. That loneliness resurfaces throughout our lives at random times, but we mistake it for something else, like when we feel alone while in a crowded room with no goddamned clue as to why.
My best girls were better than any mirror, natural or manufactured. With their innocence, I got the truest vision of myself whole. The pieces all drip into their eyes and pool into one magnificent image. Their raw emotions from their lives just beginning provided me a glimpse at the piece that most people only guess at knowing. And oh, the fun we’d have. The fun that only comes from discovering something new and elusive. It was all ours. In the middle of my reverence, the guard came in with a rendition of my meal and told me that the warden would be in shortly. I decided to wait until he arrived, my manners not allowing me to start a meal before everyone was at the table.
By the time he arrived, my meal was lukewarm. He came in with a tray topped with some fancy pasta from an Italian restaurant. His round face presented a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his cheeks flushed with the red tint of hard liquor, probably bourbon.
“How ya doing, Edgar, all things considering?”
“Surprisingly content. Perhaps even eager.”
“So you’ve made peace, I’ve presumed,” He spoke around a forkful of chicken alfredo.
I chuckled. “You can say that, but I’m pretty sure our ideas of peace are completely different.”
I finally tasted the soggy potatoes but it was hard to judge considering what I’ve consumed for the past 2 ½ years. We ate in silence for only a moment before the meaningless chatter. I tried the ignore the random religious anecdotes he would add in between bites. In all honesty, his words, his visit, his attempt at comfort could not matter less. What I was about to get in death surpassed anything on this mortal earth. I ate everything on my plate as it was impolite to leave anything and stood to see the Warden out. He held the tray in one hand, while he squeezed my shoulder with the least comforting gesture of consolation I’ve ever felt. Maybe it was because his fingers were like sausages. That same solemn smile returned across his face. “Good evening, Edgar.” I wondered why he just didn’t say goodbye.
My visit with the detective was as expected. Just an opportunity to get his final questions answered. Through his ramblings, an image of my best girls overtook me. They were haloed in bright light, holding hands, their eyes somehow visible through the white haze. I saw how anxious they were, waiting for me. I caught myself, risking a glance at the detective who had stopped talking and stared at me as if he finally caught a glimpse of the monster he hunted instead of the man that turned himself in. I saw the same thing in his eyes that I saw in the girls and I reveled at the idea of him being in the same place as my girls. How long would it have taken to find the looking glass in his eyes? He leaned back in his seat, his fingers tapping an erratic beat. He heaved a sigh before leaning towards me and asking a question, his breath harsh from years of cigarette abuse.
“Just tell me one thing, you could have gotten away with it. Our leads were dead-ends, you could have gone away and continued anywhere you liked. Yet, you fall in our laps, literally. Why?”
“I was alone again. And I figured it was about time for me to spend time with people who understood my particular brand of loneliness.”
“Why did you kill those girls?”
“Why do you throw away cracked mirrors?”
I watched the curiosity burn at his chops, but he was interrupted by the guard saying time was up. I was escorted back to my room and spent the last few hours of my time remembering Cherie, Louise, and Bobbie. How their once vibrant eyes dulled into the opaque glassy ones near the end. How their eyes changed into the ones we have as adults. I hated that their time with me was so short-lived. I hated their lack of resilience and I figured that after Bobbie, I could find someone else, but I couldn’t. I looked and looked but no one else caught my attention. They were special. They were special to me, and they were to the key to understanding why we can’t see our own pieces. I felt as though there was no one left to show me, so yes, I turned myself in because I was tired of being alone. The world could be at your feet and it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t know who you were.
When the guards and the Warden came, that smile came back full force. I was led to the chamber, strapped down by different men for each strap that secured to the bench. None of them could look me in the eye, whether it was out of disgust for my past crimes or my current situation was harder to determine. Another person gingerly searched for a vein, nodding at the warden who watched earnestly. A mechanical whirring drew my attention, and I was suddenly aware of the audience. There was the detective, the parents of Cherie, Louise, and Bobbie, daddy, and a couple of reporters. The warden came up to me and whispered, “During the…process, would you like me to hold your hand?” I told him no, he nodded knowingly and backed away. He cleared his throat and spoke with the surety of a man who has done this multiple times. After his spiel, he asked me if I had a final statement.
“My name is Edgar, Edgar Bean. And I lay here, accepting my fate as deemed by the court and the penalty as dealt by the Louisiana State Penitentiary. I do not wish to apologize for my actions because I do not wish for you survivors to live a lie thinking I felt bad for what I did. You deserve the truth. To know that they died in their prime so that they could see a truth in a way only a few mortals can. You deserve to know that I plan to take real good care of your girls when I’m gone.”
I started laughing, the thought of the welcome I would receive positively elated me. A warmness flowed through my arm and my eyes felt heavy. They closed on their own. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t alone. That numb loneliness was gone. I’d soon be Edgar, again.
Check out my newest short story and compare. Have I made any progress?
Photo by Ashim D’Silva on Unsplash
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