The Firing Squad

• Gabriel D'angelo, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2014

THE FIRING SQUAD

The warden approached. Blindfolds were issued. Would anyone see the sweat breaking off my brow? Sure, everyone was sweating in this heat, but I was different. I would be sweating even if the day was cold.
Would their blindfolds be wet too?
The day seemed as if it would never end. The sky was black and full of smoke from the fighter planes that had just passed and the vast dirt land looked like it wanted to pounce on whatever fresh human blood walked in the heat.
You're here for a reason, I reminded myself. I had chosen this course in life. I could blame no one but myself. My wife warned me. She knew I was acting in anger. She told me so. If only I'd stopped to listen.
Your actions have consequences. You're here for a reason.... The words were empty.
As the warden stepped away, my senses heightened. I heard the men around me. This time, I listened. Some sniffed, some shuffled, some mumbled, some rumbled. They all breathed: life in, life out.
Soon, there would be one less breath.
"Ready!" the warden called. Guns swept upward.
"Aim!" Guns clacked back and forth.
He paused, freezing the moment. One I would remember for all my life, for all eternity. Everything stopped: the breathing, the shuffling, the mumbling. No motion. No sound. Nothing.
If only this moment would stay frozen forever.
"Fire!" My finger jerked. The moment was broken with our rifles cracking in accordance with each other.
Blood flowed. Body slumped. I lowered my gun.
We made our way from the yard. The lucky few. Each had volunteered; filled with anger, eager to achieve Hitler’s utmost respect. As before, none sniffed or shuffled. None spoke. We walked from the face of death in profound silence.
I wiped the sweat from my brow.