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Authors: J.T. Ellison
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don’t.” She whispered the words,
a divine prayer. “No. Please don’t.” There they were again, bubbles
forming at her lips, the words slipping out as if greased from her
tongue.
Even in death, Jessica Ann Porter was
unfailingly polite. She wasn’t struggling, wasn’t crying, just
pleading with those luminescent chocolate eyes, as eager to please
as a puppy. He tried to shake off the thought. He’d had a puppy
once. It had licked his hand and gleefully scampered about his
feet, begging to be played with. It wasn’t his fault that the
thing’s bones were so fragile, that the roughhousing meant for a
boy and his dog forced a sliver of rib into the little creature’s
heart. The light shone, then faded in the puppy’s eyes as it died
in the grass in his backyard. That same light in Jessica’s eyes,
her life leaching slowly from their cinnamon depths, died at this
very moment.
He noted the signs of death dispassionately.
Blue lips, cyanotic. The hemorrhaging in the sclera of the eyes,
pinpoint pricks of crimson. The body seemed to cool immediately,
though he knew it would take some time for the heat to fully
dissipate. The vivacious yet shy eighteen-year-old was now nothing
more than a piece of meat, soon to be consigned back to the earth.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Blowfly to maggot. The life cycle
complete once again.
He shook off the reverie. It was time to get
to work. Glancing around, he spied his tool kit. He didn’t remember
kicking it over, perhaps his memory was failing him. Had the girl
actually struggled? He didn’t think so, but confusion sets in at
the most important moments. He would have to consider that later,
when he could give it his undivided thought. Only the radiant glow
of her eyes at the moment of expiration remained for him now. He
palmed the handsaw and lifted her limp hand.
No, please don’t. Three little words,
innocuous in their definitions. No great allegories, no ethical
dilemmas. No, please don’t. The words echoed through his brain as
he sawed, their rhythm spurring his own. No, please don’t. No,
please don’t. Back and forth, back and forth.
No, please don’t. Hear these words, and dream
of hell.
***
Nashville was holding its collective breath
on this warm summer night. After four stays of execution, the death
watch had started again. Homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson watched
as the order was announced that the governor would not be issuing
another stay, then snapped off the television and walked to the
window of her tiny office in the Criminal Justice Center. The
Nashville skyline spread before her in all its glory, continuously
lit by blazing flashes of color. The high-end pyrotechnic delights
were one of the largest displays in the nation. It was the Fourth
of July. The quintessential American holiday. Hordes of people
gathered in Riverfront Park to hear the Nashville Symphony
Orchestra perform in concert with the brilliant flares of light.
Things were drawing to a close now. Taylor could hear the strains
of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, a Russian theme to celebrate
America’s independence. She jumped slightly with every cannon
blast, perfectly coinciding with launched rockets.
The cheers depressed her. The whole holiday
depressed her. As a child, she’d been wild for the fireworks, for
the cotton-candy fun of youth and mindless celebration. As she grew
older, she mourned that lost child, trying desperately to reach far
within herself to recapture that innocence. She failed.
The sky was dark now. She could see the
throngs of people heading back to whatever parking spots they had
found, children skipping between tired parents, fluorescent
bracelets and glow sticks arcing through the night. They would
spirit these innocents home to bed with joy, soothed by the
knowledge that they had satisfied their little ones, at least for
the moment. Taylor wouldn’t be that lucky. Any minute now, she’d be
answering the phone, getting the call. Chance told her somewhere
a divine prayer. “No. Please don’t.” There they were again, bubbles
forming at her lips, the words slipping out as if greased from her
tongue.
Even in death, Jessica Ann Porter was
unfailingly polite. She wasn’t struggling, wasn’t crying, just
pleading with those luminescent chocolate eyes, as eager to please
as a puppy. He tried to shake off the thought. He’d had a puppy
once. It had licked his hand and gleefully scampered about his
feet, begging to be played with. It wasn’t his fault that the
thing’s bones were so fragile, that the roughhousing meant for a
boy and his dog forced a sliver of rib into the little creature’s
heart. The light shone, then faded in the puppy’s eyes as it died
in the grass in his backyard. That same light in Jessica’s eyes,
her life leaching slowly from their cinnamon depths, died at this
very moment.
He noted the signs of death dispassionately.
Blue lips, cyanotic. The hemorrhaging in the sclera of the eyes,
pinpoint pricks of crimson. The body seemed to cool immediately,
though he knew it would take some time for the heat to fully
dissipate. The vivacious yet shy eighteen-year-old was now nothing
more than a piece of meat, soon to be consigned back to the earth.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Blowfly to maggot. The life cycle
complete once again.
He shook off the reverie. It was time to get
to work. Glancing around, he spied his tool kit. He didn’t remember
kicking it over, perhaps his memory was failing him. Had the girl
actually struggled? He didn’t think so, but confusion sets in at
the most important moments. He would have to consider that later,
when he could give it his undivided thought. Only the radiant glow
of her eyes at the moment of expiration remained for him now. He
palmed the handsaw and lifted her limp hand.
No, please don’t. Three little words,
innocuous in their definitions. No great allegories, no ethical
dilemmas. No, please don’t. The words echoed through his brain as
he sawed, their rhythm spurring his own. No, please don’t. No,
please don’t. Back and forth, back and forth.
No, please don’t. Hear these words, and dream
of hell.
***
Nashville was holding its collective breath
on this warm summer night. After four stays of execution, the death
watch had started again. Homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson watched
as the order was announced that the governor would not be issuing
another stay, then snapped off the television and walked to the
window of her tiny office in the Criminal Justice Center. The
Nashville skyline spread before her in all its glory, continuously
lit by blazing flashes of color. The high-end pyrotechnic delights
were one of the largest displays in the nation. It was the Fourth
of July. The quintessential American holiday. Hordes of people
gathered in Riverfront Park to hear the Nashville Symphony
Orchestra perform in concert with the brilliant flares of light.
Things were drawing to a close now. Taylor could hear the strains
of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, a Russian theme to celebrate
America’s independence. She jumped slightly with every cannon
blast, perfectly coinciding with launched rockets.
The cheers depressed her. The whole holiday
depressed her. As a child, she’d been wild for the fireworks, for
the cotton-candy fun of youth and mindless celebration. As she grew
older, she mourned that lost child, trying desperately to reach far
within herself to recapture that innocence. She failed.
The sky was dark now. She could see the
throngs of people heading back to whatever parking spots they had
found, children skipping between tired parents, fluorescent
bracelets and glow sticks arcing through the night. They would
spirit these innocents home to bed with joy, soothed by the
knowledge that they had satisfied their little ones, at least for
the moment. Taylor wouldn’t be that lucky. Any minute now, she’d be
answering the phone, getting the call. Chance told her somewhere
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