Re: Writing Exercise: Diary Entry
It is now realized that tomorrow shall be my last to walk this earth, even if in these shackles that cripple my movements. I've just supped upon the living flesh and fur of a rat, quenched my thirst of its disease riddled blood. Its pained squeals will haunt me until I take within me my last breath of this world, and I will savor it, however polluted or enriched the oxygen may be. I thought I should make some account of my life prior to becoming incarcerated, so that these words may be read if even for entertainment, or so that one may make limericks of my tale.
The method of my execution hasn't been disclosed, and it is the unknowing that makes for a worse torment, being cast into the seas of uncertainty. I desire greatly to obtain a few details of the manner of death I will be facing, but the guards show me no such kindness. Will my blood run red from beheadment or firing squad?
The last brilliant splendor of the morning sunrise painted upon my gaze as the lids become heavy, shutting me in a world of black forever? Will the smite of the ax be true to sever my spine, will it be sharpened, or have upon it a blunt edge? I hope that my scrawlings may find some ledgibility to the viewer, but fear grips my veins and I cannot relax myself to write without some smudging. As I am writing I hear the steady breath of the guard upon the steel door. Is this careful supervision to ensure that I do not take my life tonight, and deprive the people of seeing this criminal brought to justice tomorrow?
I wonder If I will dream, or if I shall be robbed of such a whimsical collage of the thoughts and memories of my childhood. The sound of his respirations act as a strange sort of serenade, lulling me into the sense of tranquility one would feel as they lie beneath a quilt packed generously with goose down, in a climate appeasing room. I will not let myself fall into somnolence, not tonight. I shall experience the world with all my senses, if only within the walls of my cell. The scent of the moldy soil that invokes in me the feeling of nausea, the very cold of it which will keep my bones for all of eternity. No sounds wrestle beyond these bars, not the chirping of crickets or the hoots of an owl.
There is my deafening thoughts, matching rhytym of the guards breath at the door. My dainty hand slips easily between the bars and I yearn see the moonlight dance across my hand, so that I may say that I've physically held the beauty of such magicks. Alas, there is barely a silvery thread to light the path of my pen. How will the mob greet me? Will the sheer hatred of the community become a life force all its own, or will some tears be shed for me? Will my ear pick up the utterances of prayer, or will there be naught but a volley of foul curses hurled at me?
I could not help but to drift to thoughts of hanging at the gallows, my tortured body suspended above the ground as I desperately seek to touch the flinty soil if even with a solitary toe, feeling the blood recede from my upper body to pool at the lowermost regions. My pleas unto a forgiving or spiteful God becoming choked as the noose cinches tighter about my throat. Will they opt for a more cleanly means of extinguishing my life or will my limbs be strewn to the four corners? As I've previously expressed, I shall share with you the sins I've committed which have resulted in my damnation.
My life went not without its indulgences, and I've performed almost every depraved act the Good Book speaks against in trying to obtain a bit of wealth, or to satisfy the desires I have never been able to exercise within me the restraint to counteract the temptations. I've become awash in the blood of many, I suppose that it seems poetic if my blood were to let upon the hands of those who condemn me. As time has consumed my thoughts with this entry, I have not noticed that the guards had gathered outside of the cell until I was aroused by a rapping of a gauntleted hand upon the door. They observed me with a hollow look to their gazes, prodding this caged animal with their words.
"You shall suffer the fate of the Pear of Anguish. It hasn't been used for quite many a generation, and hasn't been cleaned for longer. I'm sure it shall make for a very uncomfortable entrance."(The Pear of Anguish?) The title of the cruel device fascinated me, for I have never heard of such a thing before. It seemed to have debuted long ago, but they've brought it back from the realm of the forgotten just for me. How could such a succulent pome be used for any reason which would pervert its nature? This knowledge will die with me, I'm afraid.