Elaine Gray

The Short Story

April 15, 2013 (Updated: April 17, 2013)

Word Count: 819

Making Ends Meet

Two days ago I killed someone.

He was about five-ten. Grey hair. He looked tired. He was, maybe fifty-eight or

sixty. I think he had deep blue eyes, but they could’ve have been brown. It's hard to tell,

they keep the room pretty dim. And those fluorescent lights aren't flattering for anyone.

I got the job from the newspaper. The classified section. Same page I found my

apartment. And my car. And just once, a date. I've always had good luck in the classified

section. "Anonymous government work. Strong will. Call.” So, I called. I always call.

Some people don’t like to make cold calls like that anymore. I don’t know why. There’s

nothing to loose.

They called me in for an interview.

I think he (the man I killed) was more like five-eight actually. And now that I

think about it, his hair was really dark blond. Almost brown.

They didn’t really care about my resume. They mainly wanted to ask me

questions. But I answered them honestly.

That day, I woke up at six-thirty in the morning. It was set to happen at eleven

A.M. It was only a forty-five minute drive away, but I hate rushing in the mornings. I

have a routine: light aerobics, shower, get dressed, breakfast (two pieces of toast, two

eggs, half a grapefruit, black coffee) and read the newspaper.

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It was really sunny that day. Just a beautiful day. I remember thinking that the

grass was greener than usual. The drive was quick, no traffic. Although, to be honest, I

don’t mind traffic as much as other people do.

You have to stop at a gate with a guard station before you enter the parking lot at

the prison. I stopped my car and rolled down the window. The guard put his arm on the

roof of my car and leaned down. He asked why I was there.

“I’m the executioner.”

I showed him some papers I had been given. He pushed the button that opened the

gate. I waved as I drove through, but I could see in my rearview mirror that he wasn’t

looking at me anymore.

I checked in at the main office of the prison. I had been to a prison once before, to

visit my uncle when I was eight. I never even knew why he was there. My dad wouldn’t

tell me. We only visited once.

They gave me a black hood to wear. “To protect my identity,” they said. I don’t

know why I had anything to hide. I wondered who had worn it before me.

They went over the procedures. Let me practice doing the injection on an orange.

It swelled a bit. They stopped using the electric chair a few years ago when some of the

prisoners took a long, painful time to die. The injection is supposed to be quick and more

humane. I imagined practicing electrocuting an orange.

We were escorted into the “death chamber,” as they called it. Some family

members sat on the other side of the glass. I looked at the woman who must have been

his mother. She looked at me and cried. I was glad I had the hood then. A priest led the

prisoner into the chamber.

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They never told me what he did to get on death row. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to

know. I don’t like hearing about that kind of stuff.

The priest kissed the prisoner’s forehead while the prison guards strapped him to

the gurney, his arms outstretched.

I smiled at him before I pushed the plunger down, to reassure him. But I

remembered that he couldn’t see my face.

It only took a few moments for the poison to set in. His eyes died first. Then his

hands. The doctor did some tests and called him deceased at 11:17 A.M. He was the

second dead body I had seen in my life, but the first whose death I was responsible for.

Outside the prison, the warden handed me an envelope with three fifty dollar bills

in it and shook my hand. He said that they had my number on file, so they’d give me a

call next time. I walked back to my car.

I stopped and got a hamburger on the way home.

If they do call me again, I’m not sure if I’ll do it. The prison is far away, and I

didn’t like seeing his family members.

I was a little worried that the warden would think I was fulfilling some kind of

homicidal fantasy. But really, I was just thinking, somebody’s gotta do it. A job’s a job.

And, this one-hundred and fifty dollars will finally get me to the full cost of my wedding

dress. I’m not sure if I’ll tell Ryan where I got the money. After all, he didn’t tell me

where he got the money for the venue deposit.

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