A March to the Scaffold continued
Alone, the two men mount wooden steps at opposite sides of the platform on which the scaffold has been erected and confront each other. It takes but a glance, each at the other, to tell that they have nothing in common. And yet the moment, the stark reality of what is hapening in the here and the now, forges a bond between them stronger than any made in the womb by twins. Beneath the skin they are closer than blood.
An expectant hush has enveloped everyone in the square, the crowd gone silent in the hope of catching whatever words pass between the two men, words that may throw light on a situation as unique as it is familiar, the commonality of death dressed up in the motley attire of public execution. Nobody is quite sure what will happen next, least of all the two men standing beside the scaffold. Will the killer tear off his handcuffs and choke the life from his would-be executioner, then escape among those in the crowd sympathetic to his case? Will the executioner place his rope round the killer's neck and send him plummeting away from the life he so callously denied to others? Only the two men can decide how the drama is to be resolved. It is as if they are characters on a stage in a play being written even as they act it out, and the audience on the edge of imaginary seats, attentive to every word, every slight gesture.
The first man looks down at the sea of expectant faces, the yearning in their eyes. 'A good crowd,' he remarks.
The second man appears to consider this statement, and then says, 'Market day tomorrow. There'll be a lot more people tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow then?'
The second man nods his head. 'Agreed.'
It's all over and done with, as simple as that. The executioner removes the killer's handcuffs. Seeing him do this the crowd release a collective held breath, an expression of irritation and relief combined. After a few minutes they begin to disperse, slowly filing out of the exits from the square, going off in search of whatever other entertainments the day has yet to provide, though surely none of such rare poignancy as the spectacle they have been denied.
Alone and unregarded at last, the two men take off their clothes. One of them has an erection, but otherwise their naked bodies are indistinguishable, as if they are mirror images of each other. They have everything in common; only the superficialities attendant upon their designated roles led us to believe otherwise. Each puts on the other's garments, and then they walk off in opposite directions.
Implicit in their departure is the understanding that one day, if not tomorrow or the day after, then the day after that, things will be done differently. A sacrifice to fate will be demanded and finally given, but factors too sublime for any of us to grasp will determine exactly when and how the event will take place.
The official car is waiting, a long black limousine with a police driver, to carry the killer back to his house on the outskirts of town and a life that has nothing to do with any of this.
Alone, the killer sits and reviews the day's events, wondering if the right decision was made and how many more times the drama will need to be acted out before a denouement is reached.
He watches television until his wife comes home with their daughter. They do not ask about his day. They know what he does, but want to keep that part of his life at a safe distance from their comforting suburbia. His wife prepares dinner, lasagne with side salad, followed by summer fruit meringue. His daughter did well in a test at school and is allowed a sip of Chianti by way of a special treat. By such measures normality is affirmed.
The killer and his wife go up early and make love in the big double bed that they share, striving together towards some unattainable moment of epiphany, their two hearts racing in tandem until his world is obliterated by the sudden small death of orgasm.
The prison van and the guards are waiting to carry the killer back to the uncertain safety of high walls and the 10' by 6' cell that circumscribes the boundaries of his world, hedging in reality while at the same time holding it ruthlessly at bay.
Alone in his cell the killer looks back over what happened and wonders if it was all for the best or not, but eventually decides that such matters are not his concern.
He watches television until he can no longer bear the sounds and images; they all seem as meaningless as the dreams and schemes hopelessly trapped inside his head. The guards bring him corned beef hash to eat, but he isn't hungry and leaves most of the meal. He wishes for a beer. He lies on his bed and stares at the pin-ups stuck to the walls of his cell, as if he can find some sense in their naked flesh, a rebuttal of the futility that seems to permeate all existence.
After lights out the killer snuggles down under the sheets and thinks of his wife. He masturbates, hand moving up and down at a frantic pace, until his world is obliterated by the sudden small death of orgasm.
