3 Calm Before Death

There is nothing more peaceful than knowing you're about to die, and accepting it. Nothing seems to really matter, nothing seems to be able to affect you anymore. I don't think it has a name, but I would like to call it the 'Calm Before Death'.

I took a deep breath of the crisp, winter air. The rooftop yard of the Metropolitan Correctional Center had a thin layer of snow still coating the bushes and benches. The morning sun still crested the horizon, blanketing my face in a warm glow where I stood at the chainlink fence. My breaths came out in an orangey mist in the golden rays of light. The bustling of chicago morning life was ever so present, like white noise, blending into the songs of birds.

"You seem to enjoy yourself." I hear next to me. My guard, T. Jacksson, was standing a few meters away from me, leaning his back against the fence. He was probably the largest correction officer this prison had, his tripple X uniform stretching accross his body, ready to rip at any moment. Besides being large, he was also memorable for a few other things, the first being that he perpetually wore sunglasses. Didn't matter what time of day it was, nor did it matter if he was indoors in a less than well-lit area.

The other thing was that, he was the only person - besides Jack - who did not seem to hate me for simply existing, like many others. The last thing that made him very distinct was his voice - it was like a child had a grown mans voice. He spoke in a deep, dark voice - s though he breathed pure methane some of the time - but I could always pick up little nuances in his speech that made me imagine him as a seven-foot tall eight year-old.

"You cant exactly blame me," I chuckled. "I havent had such a view in all my life, not to mention I haven't had much of one at all for two years now. Besides, there's something almost Zen-like when you know you're at your ropes' end. " He looked away. His job was probably so that I would not put up a fight when my time came, as well as keep me from the other inmates from the other wings of the prison. Hearing my response, he probably got the impression I wasn't going to be any trouble later on. And he would be right. I'm ready to leave this crumy life - not like I'm going to accomplish much anyways. I took another deep breath, closing my eyes and soaking up the sunlight. This was some underrated stuff.

The yard was rather small, standard-wise, but considering it was on the building's rooftop it was generoudly large enough, having smaller pine trees and bushes in large pots and flowerbeds around the outskirt of the yard, near the chainlink. Some benches were situated between the flowerbeds and the fence, for the view. Other benches - more for workouts - littered the inside of the flowerbeds on one side, and a basketball court that doubled as a soccer field filled the other side. I backed up and sat on one of the benches near me, Jacksson did the same where he stood.

"Dont you at least, you know, feel sad about dying?" He spoke again. "You're scheduled for the injection in just-" He checked his watch, "Three hours. Aren't you agitated or something?" I just smiled at that question.

"How would you be if you had nothing to live for? No one to care about? To know that your nothing but trouble? Would you be agitated about being dying, then?" He did not answer. He just looked down like he felt guilty for asking a simple question.

I sat there for maybe an hour more, just enjoying what time I had left. But, of course, I could not stay forever.

T. Jacksson stood up after checking his watch for the ump-tienth time.

"Time to meet the Warden, Nora." I took one last deep breath, before reluctantly standing up to follow my escort without a word.

The Warden's office was at the bottom floor of the building, the door on the right of his office read security . Where they would 'employ' prisoners from solitary to tattle-tale on the other prisoners, they would tell which prisoners had smuggled which weapons, tools, luxuries or other in there, in exchange for being let out of solitary, and maybe other things that i didn't know about. At the end of the hall read 'kitchen', which I don't think I need to explain.

The guard casually knocked on the door, not bothering to keep much attention on me. He knew I wasn't going anywhere. There was a muffled voice from the other side of the door, and Jacksson opened it.

I was expecting the big, fit, easy going, mustasched man I saw when I first arrived here, two years ago. Instead, around the muscular frame of my guard, I could make out a guy in a wheelchair.

He looked ancient as time, but at the same time, he looked to be in his mid-forties, rimmed glasses ballanced at the edge of his nose. His hair was a curly mess of black, brown and gray.

"Yes, Tyson? What is it?" Jacksson tensed at the Warden's words. I took it the 'T' in T. Jacksson stood for Tyson. No wonder he winced at the mention of it, i would be embarrased at that name as well.

"Mr. Cliton." Tyson the guard spoke through gritted teeth. "I have Nora Blood behind me." He said, walking through the doorframe to reveal my presence.

"Oh dear! Mrs. Blood!" The Warden blushed. He said some other things as well, maybe about my stay there, maybe about his slip up about Tyson's name, but I was not listening. I was way too mesmerized about Mr. Cliton, the Warden's, office.

Behind him were two, bronze, double-edged swords in an 'X' mounted on the wall. On his left, was a bookcase that rowed the entire wall, side to side, floor to ceiling. His desk was a stone slab on top of two marble pillars. I assumed the pillars were of greek design, but it might've been roman for all i knew, as well.

On his right sat a telivision with a loop of a fire on it. Overall the entire office had a very homey vibe to it. The whole thing was probably made of plastic or ceramics, though. I doubted it was advised to have real swords in an office frequented by inmates, and I doubt this low-budget prison could spare for real marble and granite desks. The bookcase was definately real, but i figured it was filled with prisoner records or something equally boring. Real or not, though, I approved of the design.

"-now, I do not believe it's too much of an issue for you, specifically, to know an officers' name, although I hope you understand the importance of anonymity among employees in prison facilities?" I snapped back to reality as Mr. Cliton ended his speech. I hastily nodded my understanding, although I could tell he saw in my eyes that I hadn't been listening, but decided to let it go.

Mr. Cliton's job was, beside running the place, to calm prisoners down or comfort them in times when it was needed. For me, he was offering me comfort in place of a priest. Since I was explicitly an atheist, I did not have any religious whoo-ha come and offer me a chance to repent or whatever. Therefore, Mr. Cliton gave me comfort instead.

After about half an hour - forty five minutes, it was evident that I was in no need. And I was excorted to a holding cell, to have my next hour in life in privacy.