Electricity

Midnight? At least they try to be poetic about it. They try to sprinkle poetry as if to wash the guilt off their hands, they try to make a loaf of bread sweeter by spreading margarine all over it, but a fact is a fact, it is an execution and I am the condemned. I sit on the electric chair awaiting the order from up high, the final word comes from the president of the republic. He is the one that gives the holy word during a war and so does he in the execution chamber. Through his word a life can be spared or a life can be cut short. For my case, I do not expect presidential pardon, I want it all to end, if it were my choice I would have opted for the guillotine but we are civilized now, we use electric chairs and lethal injections.

Sitting on the death chair, my thoughts are far away from the pain I will be experiencing by the minute, my thoughts are with my Daisy. Daisy my little bird, my redemption and my gift to this world. Daisy my daughter.

First day at school, my daughter learnt the alphabets and could not shut up in the house. The alphabets were here prayer in the morning and late after supper. A… B… C… D… My little bird went on but always forgot between M and N which came first. My pretty princess was just four years old and already obsessed with the alphabets, the sounds, the rhythm their teacher taught and I often told her mother, she was going to be a writer. My baby would write things that would move the world. She would make the poems smart people make and the world would listen. She would be a very smart girl.

Aaaa bbbb kkkk dddd eeee ffff gggg hhhh…

I would listen to her beg her mother to recite it all before she slept and they would fight before her mother apprehended that she had no choice but recite the whole alphabet sequence by their sounds. Sometimes I would join them, and it would be a choir…

Mmmm nnnn oooo pppp qqqq….

My little princess always made sure that her presence was recognised and her absence felt. In the evenings while my wife made dinner she would come to my seat and stretch beside me and I would try to ignore her intrusion and continue watching the news but my girl could not give in. She would fill me up with stories about Tony, a boy in her class every girl wanted and I would put the news on mute and ask her whether she wanted Tony too and she would nod mischievously and I would feel a sting of jealousy that she wanted another man in her life. I would pry, and ask her what she wanted Tony to do and her pretty little eyes would go deep in thought and come out beaming.

I want Tony to my friend, then we can have lunch together and sit on the bus together.

Such innocence and beauty, did all that come from me? I would hold her up and kiss her on the cheek and ask her what would happen if it worked out between Tony and her then I would have no one, but my angel was smart, words could not confuse her and neither could emotions, she would snap…

You have mom already daddy.

Yeah, I had everything alright, the most beautiful woman in the world and a little angel with eyes beaming brighter than the stars. This was my life. This was the reason I got up in each morning to make my honest living and make sure that my daughter had everything she needed, that she had her storybooks, her toys, and cartoons but most of all, she had her diaries because I knew I was training a natural born writer, a poet, and novelist who would have my name as her name. That would fill me with bliss, I had done something good to this world, and I had given it a petal, more beautiful than the sun that would shine on many lives. She was my petal and my life.

The phone rings, it is the president and my thoughts shift back to the execution room. Two guards, a masked man and a priest. Why does he have to mask his face, taking life is supposed to give him strength like God or something. The guard gets off the phone and no mercy was coming from the president. The president wants me dead, out of this world where I would not hurt anybody else. He had a country to run and I was the tree standing in his way so let the tree be cut down with no mercy and get it over with.

No need to waste my last final thoughts on these idiots, I want to remember my Daisy, how she dressed, how she smelt how she had her mother’s lips. I want to hear her last words before she was mercilessly sprayed with bullets from a machine gun as she did her yoga on the balcony and her mother standing beside her recording with her phone. I want to remember her blood as I held her lifeless body on my arms as she took her last breath. I want to see her mom fall down like a tree as the bullets made holes on every part of our house. I want to remember the shattering glass all over and the deafening blasts from the gun, how I wished they would stop and how I wished I was just dreaming. I want these to be my last thoughts.

The priest moves closer and begins his sacred rituals praying to his gods that my soul is pardoned by the heavenly jury because the earth one just wanted my head on a spike.

I begin watching my life chronicles flash before my eyes piece after piece. I see the emptiness and destitution that came when I butchered the politician who ordered the hit on my family, his eyes as he begged and begged for mercy for his life, his confession as he admitted having paid gunmen to scare people away from a piece of land he desired so much, the excuse he made about it, that he had told them not to kill anybody. It did not matter, I slit his throat with a kitchen knife and everybody he knew, twenty-seven men in total to pay for the blood of my Daisy and her mother and after it was done I felt the desolation creep into my bones and cloud my eyes like a lethal mist.

And now here I was, a priest praying the gods for my forgiveness, God would not listen, he would not care if I the pope prayed for my soul, and my sins outweighed the sins of hell. Daddy was too tired, daddy just wanted to see her Daisy one more time, feel her tiny breath over his beard one more time, just a single time, to see my baby, my girl, my little writer.

‘A disaster on humankind’, that was the name the people at the press had given me and I could hear the chants over and over as people waited for a new world, a better one without me. I did not feel anger or guilt, I stopped feeling when I saw my daughter’s eyes fade into eternal darkness and there was nothing I could do about it. I felt nothing as her mother’s blood created and artificial dam on the balcony floor and turn everything red across its path.

Sssss ttttt uuuu vvvv wwww xxxx yyyy zzzz.

I was a disaster that had only one mission – vengeance. The executioner could turn on the chair now, my enemies lie on the ground and my daughter and her mom lie in paradise. I was done.

The seat goes on, and I feel it once again, guilt, pain, mercy and love. Maybe the only thing I needed was electricity but too late, a new world was born, the disaster on humankind lies deep in the seven hells.

 

Feature Image by Mukiri Gitiri

 

InstagramCapture_51ae2f42-6453-4b96-839b-5e65680bd0c1
Dennis Peters

 

Author: Dennis Peters

When I was I younger, my mother told me not to do drugs. She said something about addiction and it sounded so distant. I never did drugs, instead, I read and wrote and I still got addicted. Now I am here, and you are here too because we have to be here and there is nothing we can do about it. | ©Dennis Peters.

5 thoughts

  1. Remember, Remember the fifth of November, the season gunpowder and plot, I have no idea why the treason gunpowder should ever be forgot,,,,

    V for Vendetta
    Vengeance,

    This is a pure read, unscathed just momentous…

    Like

  2. Dennis, every time i decide to comment on your posts, i almost do. Then i don’t. ’cause no words can fully show enough appreciation of your work. i admire you. i look up to you. you my inspiration- so keep inspiring me. that up there is more than wonderful.

    Like

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