As he poured his daily drink, his favorite jazz record was his only companion. That was all he ever needed actually. At least thats what he had convinced himself of. Sitting in his rickety old armchair, he contemplated what he was about to do. His final act. His final duty.
Azrael thought about his first day on the job. His first day as an executioner at the state prison. It was a rainy winter afternoon. The murky darkness of the windows seemed to echo the soul of the man standing in front of him. It was a deranged man who had been convicted of killing twenty children in a local school a month ago. And as the man stood in front of Azrael, he wondered to himself who of the two was more terrified of the impending death. He knew it was only his job to kill that man, but somehow he could not bring himself to pull that lever. One switch and the man who be thrown into violent convulsions as his body would be engulfed by the fatal jolts of electricity. He had not slept for three nights after he witnessed his first execution. And he was sure that day he sleep would desert him again for a few days. The violent fury of death had been permanently etched in his mind. And so was the violent fury in the dying man's eyes.
The days turned into months and months into years. Azrael had managed to block out any emotional duress he suffered from being around death all of his days. He grew quite accustomed to the perennial presence of pain and suffering around him. He would wake up each morning with a tiny bit of excitement as to what awaited him that day. Not that he would ever even admit to it. Not even to himself. He was too scared to confront that excitement. His hatred towards these demented souls led him to rather enjoy watching them suffer as they writhed to their deaths. Or maybe it was his craving for taking lives that led him to hate these people. Just so that he could justify to himself that what he was doing, what he was enjoying, what he was looking forward to, was not wrong. He was not wrong.
Azrael thought about death today. He thought about death a lot today. He loved the control he had on the death of so many people. He was the one who decided when they went. He was the one who decided how they went. He was the one with their lives in his hand. His to take, his to end, his to enjoy !
Today had been his last day on the job. Today had been his last kill. He could no longer go back to it. He could no longer control death as he pleased. And he was missing it already. His hunger just could not be satiated any where else. Death was the only thing he knew to control in his life. Death was the only thing that made him feel alive. He could not let go of his control.
There was one more life that he had complete control on. One life he could end if he wished, when he wished and how he wished. His own. And that was precisely his plan today. And a wonderful plan it was. The perfect swan song. The perfect ode to his control on death. As he sat in his final resting place, a makeshift electric chair he had himself designed, he was still sipping on his most expensive cognac. He looked at the switch. Took his last sip and threw the glass to the floor. The shattering of the glass was almost like a drum roll, a prelude to his final act. And then he flipped the switch....
Mavdiary by Rhishikesh Joshi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Azrael thought about his first day on the job. His first day as an executioner at the state prison. It was a rainy winter afternoon. The murky darkness of the windows seemed to echo the soul of the man standing in front of him. It was a deranged man who had been convicted of killing twenty children in a local school a month ago. And as the man stood in front of Azrael, he wondered to himself who of the two was more terrified of the impending death. He knew it was only his job to kill that man, but somehow he could not bring himself to pull that lever. One switch and the man who be thrown into violent convulsions as his body would be engulfed by the fatal jolts of electricity. He had not slept for three nights after he witnessed his first execution. And he was sure that day he sleep would desert him again for a few days. The violent fury of death had been permanently etched in his mind. And so was the violent fury in the dying man's eyes.
The days turned into months and months into years. Azrael had managed to block out any emotional duress he suffered from being around death all of his days. He grew quite accustomed to the perennial presence of pain and suffering around him. He would wake up each morning with a tiny bit of excitement as to what awaited him that day. Not that he would ever even admit to it. Not even to himself. He was too scared to confront that excitement. His hatred towards these demented souls led him to rather enjoy watching them suffer as they writhed to their deaths. Or maybe it was his craving for taking lives that led him to hate these people. Just so that he could justify to himself that what he was doing, what he was enjoying, what he was looking forward to, was not wrong. He was not wrong.
Azrael thought about death today. He thought about death a lot today. He loved the control he had on the death of so many people. He was the one who decided when they went. He was the one who decided how they went. He was the one with their lives in his hand. His to take, his to end, his to enjoy !
Today had been his last day on the job. Today had been his last kill. He could no longer go back to it. He could no longer control death as he pleased. And he was missing it already. His hunger just could not be satiated any where else. Death was the only thing he knew to control in his life. Death was the only thing that made him feel alive. He could not let go of his control.
There was one more life that he had complete control on. One life he could end if he wished, when he wished and how he wished. His own. And that was precisely his plan today. And a wonderful plan it was. The perfect swan song. The perfect ode to his control on death. As he sat in his final resting place, a makeshift electric chair he had himself designed, he was still sipping on his most expensive cognac. He looked at the switch. Took his last sip and threw the glass to the floor. The shattering of the glass was almost like a drum roll, a prelude to his final act. And then he flipped the switch....
Mavdiary by Rhishikesh Joshi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
