nothing, i feel nothing, not physical, not emotional, i am just floating in this riot of colors and noise.
for a moment, it is the bathroom in my old apartment, and the walls are red, the carpet is black, the camp stove is burning, and yellow smoke is billowing out of the bottle.
for a moment, it is Side Pocket, but all the tables are green, and the felt is black; the Budweiser in my hand is upside down, but nothing is spilling out.
for a moment, it is just the whirlwind again.
for a moment, i see a piece of notebook paper, white with blue stripes, then blue with white stripes. words begin to appear in green, but i can't read them.
for a moment, everything is red, but where i am and what i am seeing is a unfamiliar to me.
suddenly, everything clears, and i am sitting in a chair. not sitting, struggling. i am strapped in, with metal bands across my ankles, my thighs, my torso, my neck, and my forehead. there is a blinding light shining in my face, and three men standing around me.
the gaurd on my left, anthony, i know him. i've known him ever since i came to this place . . . he would sit on the other side of my door in the middle of the night (day? so hard to tell in this place) and listen to me talk about my pride, my love, my drive, and my crime. he would whisper quietly about his daughter, and how much he loved his wife, and how he was working on his car. sometimes he would ask me why i had done something like that thing which had put me in my windowless cell. and i had no answer for him.
i had never seen his face before, but the look in the eyes was as fearless and yet kind as i knew anthony was. it had to be him, but, was he crying?
on my right, the doctor. or the medical technician . . . do you even need training to do this? what kind of sick fuck could do this for a job? showing a complete lack of tact (and taste), he is dressed in black scrubs. a small syringe in his hand squirts out a thick, clear liquid . . . hmmmm . . . i wonder if that is . . . no, it couldn't be . . .
look at him, he doesn't even have the decency to look excited, or sad, or sick, or anything at all . . . he acts like i feel: blank.
it's the suit in the middle that shocks me out of nothingness. is that her? in a suit? damn, she looks good . . . now i remember why i would have left that little redhead i thought i loved: for her, if she had only asked . . . but what is she doing here?
her green eyes are brimmed with tears, and she holds a single paper notecard in front of her like it is a snake.
"ryan taurant, for the crimes of . . .blah, blah, blah . . . the United States government hereby sentences you death by lethal injection," she breaks into tears, sobbing heavily, "may . . . may . . ." her sobs override her, and she collapses onto the floor. my heart screams out to her, i scream out to her, and she turns away . . .
"may god have mercy on your soul, brother," anthony says, reaching forward to grasp my hand as the doctor (technician, no man of medicine would stand for this) steps forward and plunges the needle into my forearm. when a register shows that he has missed, i begin laughing.
more to the right, asshole, and not so deep
the look of inceduility on his face sends me laughing all the way down into darkness . . .
and back to the colors, and the screams . . . and the feeling . . .