Manny sat on his cot with his head in his hands, silent, completely oblivious to the maelstrom of screaming and cursing going on just outside his cell. He had asked his mother not to come, not to lend credence to the entire fiasco by playing their games. The people that had put him there wanted tears, a million of them, just to show him just how wrong his actions were. It was a cycle for them. They saw mother cry when their children were arrested, they watched them sob when they were sentenced, and now they were watching as his mother fell to her knees and begged them not to kill her only son. Somewhere inside, somewhere deep and dark, she knew the guards that were trying to help her to her feet and get her out of the cell block couldn't, and wouldn't, do anything to her save her son. But she couldn't help it. They were tears that needed to be cried, if only to remind those in charge they were killing someone's baby.
Killing. It had come easy for Manny. Growing up in a broken home, where a stream of abusive and sadistic men had made their ways into his home, he had learned quickly that pity was a tool, nothing more. It had no real use in his world, other than to get what he wanted, when he wanted it. He had learned early that pain was useless, as well, unless it loosened the lips of others. It amazed Manny how little pain someone would endure before they'd give up their own mother. He knew he should feel something, anything, for those who fell under his gun. He knew he was supposed to regret killing, to feel pity for his victims. But the world had taught Manny one undeniable truth: No one was innocent. Even the ones that looked innocent were hiding demons. Child molesters, rapists, sadists... They hid under the guise of a lamb until they had what they wanted. Then they showed themselves for what they really were.
"Hey Manny, you gonna be OK?" It was Lester, in the cell next to his. He'd scene everything, heard every pleading word his mother had screamed. Lester was going to die too, but he didn't have anyone, or if he did they never came to see him or wrote to him. Lester was a killer too, with the same hard heart, filled with the same life lessons. The only difference now, however, was Lester had found Jesus in one of the several chapels in the prison. Had found him, said hello, and welcomed the bearded, sandal-wearin' dude into his heart. Lester would talk about the Bible for hours, and while Manny didn't believe one word of it, it reminded him of a better time in his life. A time when his grandmother had stolen him away from the hell-hole her daughter called home. She had tried so hard to teach him something better, to show him the world as he knew it wasn't all that he had seen in his short life.
"Hey Manny, I'm sorry man. It's gotta be hard to see your mom like that, right before you know you're gonna," Lesters voiced trailed away. The two had talked about their death sentences for a couple of years now, but even with the day looming over them like a black cloud, they both had a hard time saying it. "Hey man, I asked the warden if he'd let me come over there and minister to you, you know, when the priest is supposed to come. He said it was OK if it was OK with you, but I still don't get to eat any of yo' last meal," he said with a gentle laugh. So many of their conversations had happened just like this, with the two of them talking long into the night, unable to see each other or read each others expressions, going only on the sound of their voices. Manny could see Lester, sitting on a cot just like his, wearing a gray jumpsuit, just like him. Hell, the only difference between the two men was the color of their skin, cause Lester was black and Manny was Latino... and the fact Lester believed his life would continue beyond that cold, steel room with the table and the needles. Manny had no such hopes. In fact, after all he'd seen and done in his life, he was glad it would all end.
"Hi Manny." The voice didn't come from Lester. It came from the shadows of Manny's cell, where the blackness was impenetrable. It was a voice Manny knew well. He'd heard it enough in the past several months. "What the fuck do you want now, man?" Manny asked. The figure seemed to settle into the darkness, with just the left side of his face and the glint of one dark eye visible. "How are ya' doing, Manny?" The expression on the one eye seemed to shift, resembling concern, but Manny knew different. "Well, I'm gonna be executed tomorrow. How the hell are you?" The figure seemed to almost grin at Manny's choice of words.
"He back, Manny?" It was Lester this time. Lester had heard enough of these conversations to know full well the dark guy was back. That's what the two called him, but they both knew better. They knew his name. "Yeah, he's back to bug me some more, while he fuckin' can," Manny said. He glared at the darkness. At times, he thought he could see a flash of a toothy grin in the darkest parts of the shadows. "That's right Manny, it's almost time. Are you excited? I certainly am," said the darkness. "I've been looking forward to this for a very long time." Manny closed his eyes like he always did, praying the darkness would just go away. It was like he was six years old again, closing his eyes, counting to 10 and praying the boogeyman wouldn't still be there when he opened them. But he always was, loaded up with book, or crank, or whatever other chemical him and his mother could get their hands on. He was always there.
"Don't listen to him, Manny. Don't listen to what he says. He just wants to break you, man. He just wants to enjoy the pain and suffering he's created," said Lester, his voice well above a whisper, as if his words could chase away the darkness. It was almost enough to make Manny laugh at times, a convicted murderer turned minister trying to chase away demons with his might words from God. He wondered if the darkness would be there to torment Lester when his time got closer.
"Manny, I know you don't understand yet, but you're special. You've always been special, to me, to my work. I know you don't believe in God. Hell, I don't, most of the time," the darkness hissed at him. "But tomorrow's just the beginning for you, my friend. Tomorrow isn't your fuckin' going away party, son. It's your welcome home. It's the beginning, Manny. Do you hear me? It's the goddamn beginning."
Manny barely even realized it, but he was quietly sobbing now. He could feel the warm tears sliding down his face, sliding down his lips and leaving a salty feeling on his throat and chest. The very thought of crying infuriated him. He was determined to make it to that room tomorrow without so much as a cringe, and silently accept the end of things. Of course, his plan didn't include deputy dipshit in the corner, and he was, without a doubt, fucking up his plan. Manny suddenly became furious, as if his outrage could burn like a torch and wipe away every shadow in his cell, in the entire prison! It started as a groan deep in his throat, until it became something bigger, something guttural, something instinctual. He was rising to his feet now, his hands balled into fists of rage. He would silence that voice, one way or another. He would tear his throat out and show it to him, as he gasped for breath and found none. He flung himself up, his eyes opening for the first time, alive with fire and rage.
But there was no one there. There never was. This had been their ebb and tide for more than a month now, and it had yet to change. He could hear Lester in the background, through ringing ears, telling him to calm down before the guards came, but Manny didn't care. What could they do to him? How could they hurt a man just hours from his own cold, sterile death. Manny didn't believe in God, but he prayed. He prayed the darkness would stay away from him, whether it was real or just in his head, and let him die with some sort of dignity.
Somehow, however, he doubted that was going to happen.
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