The Gaiety of the Reaper

The Gaiety of the Reaper The Gaiety of the Reaper

Status: Finished

Genre: Literary Fiction

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Literary Fiction

Summary

What comes when the judicial system can't shape a man's conscience.

Summary

What comes when the judicial system can't shape a man's conscience.

Content

Submitted: March 12, 2009

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Content

Submitted: March 12, 2009

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It was accepted by all the men in the room that he was going to die. He had no choice but to be sentenced, no matter what any one of them said. They had to be there, they had no choice either. They were not better off themselves.
A dead man cannot walk the streets they heard someone say. If the case was such, the streets would be empty right now. Men had ceased to exist a long time ago. Today people walked their pre-traced steps into further self destruction. This man was to suffer the most unjust of all sentences. But in a world of dead souls, his minutes of joy were worth an eternity of darkness. The men in the jury envied him.
He was not afraid to die that day; he could have died a long time ago and not cared. It was not up to him, he never wagered life. He felt that life was a gift from a higher power, even if he absolutely loathed the idea of a god. If this was the way he would go, it was not so bad. It was not that he liked this way of going, over a false pretense of justice, but he felt like his life had been accomplished. He also felt he was not done accomplishing everything he could have, but it did not matter now. His life was not in his hands anymore, it had never been.
“Kill me but don’t be a hypocrite about it, don’t pretend this is right.”
That night he was given the food of a lifetime, and he hated the mockery that was imposed upon him by that. The source of life in his hands, the main fuel for living was being delivered to him. At least if he was to fix a car with a bomb, he would not fill the tank first.
The torture he was supposed to endure that night was supposed to be the biggest form of punishment. He felt peace inside. He felt a clean conscience and he could endure any injustice done to his body. They expected him to live his last night on earth as a hell, as a reminder of what he would feel all eternity. They never expected a man like him to be able to stare at death in the face and mock it.
He was certainly sad, he had people whom he loved, and received love from. He knew that this would probably be worst for them than for him now; he then remembered why he loved those people and why it was not too hard a thing to endure by them. He certainly hoped so. That was his one plea to the god that he knew was out there, and hated to acknowledge. If there was ever going to be a time, it was now. He looked at up and pleaded to Zeus, to Jupiter, to Ra, to Quetzalcoatl, to Jesus, to Buddha, and most importantly, to what they represented, and pleaded for his loved ones.
He then managed something unimaginable to all the men before him in that position. When the guards saw it time to take him to his death, they saw something deemed impossible by their own standards. It was either the most horrifying thing, or the most liberating thing to see. What they saw was a man asleep, with full knowledge that his death was but a few hours away. It was not only the fact that he was asleep that disturbed those men in uniform; it was the calmness in his movements. In his sleep, he showed full confidence, and when he was woken up he showed indifference, when they chained him he showed acceptance, and when they killed him he smiled.
Every man in that room that day, at that hour, at that moment will have that picture of a man with the greatest serenity ever witnessed by anything living. It was the kind of man worth saving. It was the kind of man capable of being saved. It was the only man worth being saved. It was a man that had to be killed.


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