Spring 2015
Study of Three Hands by Albrecht Durer
My first time, I still remember it. We were both scared,
but maybe I was more scared. He asked when I wanted it to
happen, the executing. I had to kill someone, and someone
else wanted to know when. I thought midnight might be a
good time, so I said, “Twelve,” but I was nervous, and I stutter
when I'm nervous, and so I stuttered. That's how it happened
that my first execution took place at 12:12. And every one
since has taken place at 12:12.
I'd like to think I wasn't always this way, but I'm sure I
was, even before I knew it, and I don't reckon I've changed all
that much. This latest one killed his whole family, wife, kids.
I don't reckon he's changed all that much either. I'm not sure
why he killed them, but afterward, he tried to kill himself.
This much I can understand.
I darted my eyes between him and the two-way mirror.
Just when I was about to give thumbs-up, this guy asked me
to hold his hand. No one ever asked anything like that before,
and I wasn't sure what to do.
When I was a boy, the ice broke, and I fell right through. My whole body stiffed up, and my hand shot
toward the hole, and I just wanted someone to hold it, to pull me out of the crazy mess I'd fallen into.
And someone did. Someone held my hand, so I held his. He squeezed, and I squeezed, and in his eyes I
could tell what he was thinking, the same thing I was thinking, that we weren't all that different. I held
the hand of a killer, and so did he.
My thumbs-up told my assistant I was clear, and then he'd flip the switch. I locked eyes with the man
whose life I was about to take. I thought about icy water, and realized maybe I'd changed after all. Without
freeing my hand, I gave thumbs-up with the other.
The Linnet's Wings