An End To Waiting

An hour before sunrise. A man opens his sleepless eyes and looks through the flat gray of the ceiling above him into anywhere. Anywhere but here, today. The expectant silence of the morning is broken by the creaking of bed springs and a sigh of resignation. Water pours cool from the tap into the clean white porcelain of the sink and for a long time he watches as it swirls and trickles down the drain, wishing he could follow. Cupping his palms he lets them fill and overflow, feeling the tendrils of cold water trace themselves about his hands. In the mirror he sees his reflection, but cannot hold its gaze and looks away...

Sunrise. A man listens to the familiar sound of hard shoe leather on painted concrete and the sleigh-bell jingle of keys on a ring. The head of the key scrapes at the heavy lock, searching and then finding as the tumblers fall, one-by-one, into place and the door slides open...

...Cell doors line the long hallway. Behind them men wait for nothing but an end to waiting. They sit and cry, they sleep, they scream and curse, they pace like animals in cages, they rattle their bars with bloodstained hands. But now they simply stand and watch, their eyes following the three men walking by them, two in uniform, one in chains...

The hallway is long...not nearly long enough. A man looks straight ahead, past the cells to the far door, past the door to everything he can imagine lies beyond, past imagination to the end.

...Seven men stand in a large room of whitewashed concrete and incandescent light. Three of them are dressed in blue uniforms and black caps, one in a white coat, two in dark brown suits, and one in black, white and linked steel. In the middle of the room is a broad, high-backed chair, covered in leather straps and hooked to wires that run along the floor and up the wall. On the wall is a large switch with a heavy wooden handle...

A man stands alone in a room, people moving around him like dust in a beam of light, seen but unnoticed, their voices a catacomb whisper in the back of his mind. Beneath his hands he feels the unpolished grain of the wooden chair, then the warmth of skin beneath rough cloth, the cold touch of steel buckles and the smooth touch of worn leather straps. He breathes deep, holding it and then letting it go reluctantly. A prayer is muttered behind his clenched teeth; a bead of sweat runs down his back. He shuts his eyes and a moment later the switch is thrown...

A man opens his eyes. The hair on the back of his neck falls and he breaths deep again, the smell of ozone filling his nostrils. He looks at the man in the chair, finished with waiting. His tongue touches at his lips and he tries to swallow, his throat suddenly tight. Letting go of the heavy wooden handle, he stares at his trembling hand, then presses it to his chest and runs it slowly down the front of his uniform.