On Death Row

• Nadia Allen, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2008

Drip…drip…drip. Water was sliding down one of the slime-covered walls and falling…falling…falling through midair, and lastly the splash…splash…splash of each drop landing in a small pool of water on the muddy ground. The dungeon was dark with only the faintest of light coming from the short candles, which were burning outside the iron gates. The iron gates were tall and thick with hardly any room between each bar. The top of each bar had been shaped into a sharp point so that if you tried to get over them you would nearly always slice yourself. The floor was dirt and in the far corner of the small, square room was an empty jug waterless. The roof and the walls were covered in mould and thick slime.
Come afternoon, the guard would come and give you some water and dried bread crusts. His armour was thick and looked heavy. The chains around his neck would glow in the candlelight. The keys jingled with each step. The noise of the black boots echoes through the prison long after the guard had returned to his position.
At night, the candles would be blown out, leaving me in complete darkness. The floor was uncomfortable and cold. Nothing soft to sleep on. No pillow for my head. Nightmares would fill my dreams, and I would often lie awake, forcing myself to stay awake so my dreams wouldn’t be taken by visions of torture. Sleep would soon overtake me, and each night the nightmares would return.
I would be woken next morning by the beating of a drum. The drum symbolised an execution, being that of hanging or having your head chopped off. One day, one of these would become my fate. If only I knew. Each day I would spend it on the art of how it’s done. Whether I would be hung or decapitated and what skill the executioners have in doing such a ghastly job. Which would hurt more? Which method would I prefer? It is questions such as these that bothered me. In a way, I wish I were already dead.
There were many other prisoners, but all they could do was sit and groan by their own gates, wanting nothing more than freedom. The only freedom would be the same fate as mine, death.
The next morning, I was woken early. The guard lead me past the other dungeons. Everyone was still asleep. Occasionally, I would stumble and the guard would pull me up by my wrists. I didn’t realise what was happening until the drum started beating. Fear took over me and I began to have violent shaking fits. I was dragged up three steps where the sharp blade, hanging from some rope, was sparkling in the sunrise. A bag was tied tightly around my neck, forcing me to gasp for breath. Silence…then came nothing…blackness.
Drip…drip…drip. Blood ran down the stained bricks. Then falling...falling…falling through mid-air. Lastly, the splash…splash…splash of each drop collecting in a pool on the ground.