The Convict's Last Meal
They put my food on the clean, metal table. They put it down so gently that the china wares did not create even a tiny sound. How can these huge, burly men make such delicate movements? I wonder if they practice the movements many times; the two of them coming in through the door held open by two other huge, burly men in uniform, fluidly marching to the table, carefully putting the dishes on the table. Either they are doing these practiced movements as part of their routine or just for presentation’s sake. As much as I don’t care, they are a sight to see. It was like watching a performance.
They put down the mashed potatoes first, mixed with diced red onions, I specially requested. Next is puttanesca, minus the anchovies but with a generous amount of capers. Then green tea in a ceramic kettle, its steam escaping its mouth. And lastly, my favorite strawberry smoothie, with lots of strawberry chunks. I want to drink it, it is my favorite after all and I haven’t tasted if for five years, and it will immediately melt. But I have to eat my last meal in order. That’s what I intended to do.
Fulfilling a condemned prisoner’s wishes through giving him or her favorite food is not a rule or a part of the law. It is actually a long tradition followed by a belief that making a person happy who is about to die by granting them their last meal. If the inmate will die happy, the spirit will not haunt the executioner for life. Other wardens give cigarettes or liquor to relax them. How kind they are to criminals who committed unthinkable crimes.
But what a stupid superstition. They are wasting money for such a baseless stupid belief.
But still, half of me is pleased that they follow it. Not that I will become a vengeful spirit anyway. I’m just glad that for the last time, I can enjoy this little, earthly pleasure.
I am already at peace with myself and of this mundane world. To the people who are living in it, and to those who had long passed away.
What’s the purpose of hating them anyway? Nobody is above the law and the enforcers have to enforce it. They have to do their job to maintain order in this chaotic world. If humans were not governed by law there’s nothing left of them now.
I don’t have any regrets. What’s done is done. I killed them. I don’t have any choice. It would be against my personal morality if I just let them live. That’s what my purpose of living is, to follow that ingrained morality in me. I don’t have any choice, I was born into this world that way. Nobody can choose their parents nor have control what genes they’ll inherit and what name their parents will give them. Nor what kind of environment they’ll be raised in.
I took a slice of puttanesca first. I closed my eyes as I slowly eat; remembering the day I first ate it. It was one of those hot summer days and my best friend and I chose to sit in one of the tables outside the little Italian restaurant. It is the only fancy restaurant in our small town. We always ordered pizza in this place whenever we wanted to celebrate something. Lyla passed her board exam and we wanted to celebrate it by eating outside. This time, we ordered puttanesca. She said that she liked the sound of its name. The owner explained to us that, “puttanesca” literally means “in the styles of a prostitute.” A dish invented in Naples around the 20th century, it is presumably believed that its strong aroma leads customers to brothel doors. It was always true then, that the best way to reach a man’s heart is through his stomach. Not that the prostitutes wanted to win those men’s hearts anyway. They just wanted the easy way through those men’s pockets.
It is not a popular choice even by patrons of the restaurant. By whatever reason, that I don’t know of. But we chose it anyway because hey, she finally had a proper job and she was going to live a new, happy life. A small victory after a series of misfortunes in life.
But she’d never able to experience that new life because that very night, she was killed on her way home. I still blame myself. I was the reason why she was late home. I persuaded her to watch the latest movies with me.
“We’re going to do a movie marathon at the theatre! Let’s watch every movie until they close.” It was past two in the afternoon and depending on the length of the picture, we can watch four or more movies until the 11 p.m. closing time.
“What? Why not just watch them at my place. I still have many movies there that I haven’t watched yet.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t worry, it’s my treat. You’ll be very busy soon and you don’t have time for this sort of thing anymore. This is going to be the last time that we are going to enjoy each other’s company.”
So she relented. And that’s really our last time together. I was still wondering why she agreed to come with me. She complained many times while we were eating that she was so tired and she badly needs sleep. She was glad that her nightly study is over. She had been juggling both her day job serving in a fast food restaurant and studying at night. She had a lot of odd jobs and she never had the luxury to complain. She just faced life with such determined doggedness.
As I made my way through the plate, fork by fork, I tried to remember our conversation. I can remember nothing. All I can remember was the glow in her eyes and the radiance in her face as the summer sun hits her face. Her laughter, my laughter. We laughed too loud and people turned, looked at us with admonishment in their faces.
The conversation didn’t matter. What mattered was that we were so happy and carefree back then, momentarily forgetting the woes of the world, unaware of the tragic event that will happen later that night. But I don’t want to think about that. I want to think about how beautiful that day was. Maybe the guards saw the sudden changes of my facial reaction- from smiling to frowning, and back to smiling again.
They shifted their weight a bit and stared at me unblinkingly. Maybe they were thinking that I’m up to something, as I usually do. What a waste of mass of flesh and bones.
I was taking my time yet the guards don’t show any kind of impatience. They just stand in front of me like marble sentinels standing outside the gate of a palace. I didn’t mind their presence as much as a calm and cool cat didn’t mind a dog’s watchful eyes. As soon as I finished the first dish of my last meal, the memories vanished, including the emotions associated with it, like dust on a windshield wiped by a dishrag.
I reached out for the mashed potatoes. Just the smell of it gave me vivid memories. It was that particular smell which assaulted my nose when I entered his apartment. I can hear folk-rock music from the inside seeping through the door. I pressed the buzzer. Once. Twice. I did not hear any approaching footsteps to the door. I pressed longer. I got impatient. I opened the door myself. Picking locks is, of course, just one of my various skills. I opened the door, there’s a security door chain from the inside. Careful bastard. But of course, this kind of lock can’t hinder people with deft and skillful hands like mine. His neighbors didn’t bother me either. His type of person chooses a place convenient for people like me. I slipped inside the room and locked the door. The doorway was dark but I can still see things only disgusting men collect.
Sunlight was pouring inside the apartment. I went in, it was a two-room; there was a bedroom on the left side of the doorway. On the right sight is a bigger room that served as both kitchen and living room. The smell was stronger from here, the pop music clearer. I can see a head sticking out of a club chair facing a silent TV. I approached it and faced the man. He was in a deep sleep, an open men’s magazine sitting haphazardly on his lap, arms splayed on both sides. I sat on the couch next to him and stared at him. He was not going to wake up soon. I looked up around the room. Other than several articles on the couch and on the IKEA table in front of him, this room was strangely neat compared to the narrow room in the doorway. Even his perverted collection of magazines were stacked neatly next to the television set.
I was curious about what he cooked. I turned my back to him without a second look and went straight to the kitchen at the left side of the room.
Of course. It was mashed potato. My stomach woke up from the sight and smell of it. I was hungry. I did not eat properly for two days, I didn’t have the appetite. I was facing a dilemma, which one should I finish first, this food or that man. I leaned on the counter for a while, ruminating. Even the kitchen was clean and the garbage bin was empty. I decided to do what I have come here to do so that I can relax and enjoy in this pristine kitchen after. I took the small scalpel that I carefully inserted in my armband, hidden behind my phone. I took a dishrag from the counter and leisurely walked towards the man. I covered his mouth firmly with the rag and with my trained eyes, carefully and efficiently slashed his carotid vein. His eyes flew open in surprise, looked searchingly around the room and finally, his eyes rested on me, confused but no sooner lost its life. I let his head rest on the chair, in the same position when he was sleeping peacefully. Now, he can sleep eternally.
I turned back to the kitchen and ate the mashed potato. He was not a bad cook. Though a simple dish, it was better than those sold in fast-food restaurants.
I left the apartment as it is. Boisterous laughter and a shrill scream here and there assaulted the air. Nobody had an inkling what had just happened. In places like this, it would take months before residents would be suspicious of the smell and discover the body. A candle had been extinguished and it didn’t make the world any dimmer.
It was time for green tea. The steam from the teakettle has long gone already. I pour a good amount in the tiny cup. Cupping it with hands as if its long gone warmth will warm me in this otherwise cold room. It did give me warmth, but not in a physical sense. It was the thought that comes with it. And a wave of memories came rushing seemed more tangible than what was in front of me.
I seek for those who live in seclusion, those who try to stay away from the eyes of the world and those that the world forgets that they still exist. Those are the kind of people who do a lot of unthinkable things like I do. But when people like us go out and mix ourselves in the stream of normal people, we just get carried away as if we are the same. We don’t sink, we don’t float, we mix in the river, but the clear, crystal water becomes murkier. The river doesn’t notice the change. But our kind notices each other.
The leaves above danced violently. The crackles of the twigs echoed in the otherwise silent forest. I can see the cabin down the clearing. Nobody was around. Nothing moved. Not even a blade of grass in the overgrowth. Maybe the wind couldn’t reach down there. The cabin is sitting in a recessed area, as if some unknown giant entity took a gigantic bowl and scooped the earth in there, with all the trees and shrubs in it. Then, as if an afterthought, put a small cabin in the middle of it and haphazardly stuck tall weeds and grasses around it.
I waited for a few more minutes, hidden in the shadows of the trees. If this was a waiting game, I know I was going to be the winner. No one or I’d say, nothing came out of the cabin. It was also the same in the narrow gravel that leads to the opposite side of the forest. I walked towards the cabin, still ready if something suddenly comes up. Nothing except the whistling wind that seems to suck the soul of every living being every time it passes through.
Down in the recess, it was calm and safe from the soul-sucking wind. But it’s cooler down here. It is the same feeling you get when you suddenly enter a deep cave. It has its own temperature. The grass that carpets the earth is moist with dew but the earth itself is dry. I feel like I wanted to lie down, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. To just relax. But to just lie there and enjoy the moment is something that I can’t afford to do. I still have an urgent business to finish.
I sensed a movement in my right. Something is coming out of the forest. I look around for a place to hide. There was nothing between me and the forest. It was too late to run back to the safety of the shadows of the trees or to the cabin. I quickly crouched low instead, ready to spring forward whatever comes out. There was no haste in the soft sound. It seems like it didn’t notice me yet. Slowly, a striped orange cat saunters out of the thick bushes. I sigh in relief but I feel a little bit embarrassed for being caught in such an embarrassing situation.
The cat stopped for a while, smells a small, yellow flower and takes a bite of grass. Then it walked towards me and sidled my leg. It didn’t have a collar but it seems used being around people. I gave it a small rub in the of the head . It plopped on the ground and rolled over its back, exposing its soft belly. I stood up. I didn’t have time for this. Soon enough, a real threat might emerge out of the woods.
I walked towards the cabin. The cat did not follow me. It rolled on its belly and stared at me. It chewed a few more blades of grass and stood up. It shook off its body and sauntered away back to the forest. There are only one door and a small window next to it. It looked old but well kept. It seemed like someone’s living here. I gave the door a slight push. It was not locked. Nothing stirred inside. I push it wide open. I backed away from the door and waited. Still, nothing moved from the inside. I waited for a few moments just to be certain. I finally got inside and closed the door behind me.
It took a while for my vision to adjust. The first thing I saw is the hearth in the middle of the room. Probably not only to cook food but also to keep the place warm in the winter. A kettle black with soot was hanging above it. A wooden chair sits in front of it. A single wooden bed with a thin foam was at the right side. The pillow and sheets look worn but they were clean. Several knives and blades of different size and form were hanging at the foot of the bed, sorted and arranged according to their length. In the left of the room was a table. There was nothing on it except a leather-bound journal and an empty glass. Next to the table is a cupboard full of provisions. Mostly canned goods and dry food. There are two jars of coffee, filter papers, and a box of tea. I opened the box. The tea gave off a very strong aroma. I opened the journal. There was some kind of alphabet written in it that I am not familiar with. Some strange diagrams and illustrations were also completely alien to me. I closed it. I will just get back to it later.
I went to the hearth and lit a fire. I put the water to boil and sat on the wooden chair facing it. I watched the fire crackle, its every tongue rise up to live and die. Time will prolong time and life will serve life. Who said that again? I can’t remember. Maybe it was Kierkegaard. Or Camus. I’m not sure. But those are the words that entered my mind while staring at the fire as it rose and disappeared in the air.
I didn’t hear any footsteps. All I saw was a light coming in from the open door and it darkened again. I look at the doorway. A large figure is blocking the way. I did not move an inch. I just watched him and I knew that he was watching me, too. He suddenly thrusted himself towards me. I lifted the chair and threw it to him. He stopped and stared at me again. I slowly retreated behind the fire. I still can’t see his face clearly.
“Why are you here?” a deep voice asked. Did he know me?
“To collect a payment.”
He rumbled.
What’s written in there?” I nodded my head towards the journal's general direction without breaking eye contact with him.
He rumbled again. “What’s the use of that for a dead person?”
I just looked at him and crouched a little bit, taking a wider stance to balance my inner core. It is both an attack and a defensive stance. Ready to spring forward anytime but also to keep my balance when he attacks first, assuming that he has no weapon of course. In this close-quarter, I’ll be close to dead meat if he is armed. I have a small gun tucked and hidden inside my shirt. But this was only for emergencies. Besides, I hated using guns. They were loud and messy.
He can’t get near to me immediately. The fire was between us. He had to move around to reach me. But it seemed like he is not in a hurry to finish me. He was taking his time. He didn’t see me as a threat at all. He was my prey when I came here. He was back in his turf and it looked like I’m his prey now. No, he didn’t see me like that. He knew why I’m here and he considered me as dangerous.
My scalpel is too small this time. I have to take the first move. The kettle whistled. I stepped to my left. He mirrored my step. It seemed like he can read my thoughts.
Before I can dash to the knives on the wall, he jumped on me. I grabbed his collar, turned my back, crouched low, and threw him on the ground.
Before I can land a blow on him, he jumped backward. A very agile move for a hulking man like him. This guy knew what to do, unlike that man back in that apartment complex. He charged towards me again. I took the kettle and threw boiling water at his face. He screamed in pain. He thrashed wildly. He touched the hearth and recoiled in pain. He can’t see me anymore but he’s still very dangerous. His strong arms can snap my neck instantly. I took one of the long knives hanging and went behind him. I swung it to his neck. His neck is too thick that it just didn't even go halfway. He screamed while holding his neck. The second blow fell him down. And the third blow ended his pain. Of course, I could have waited for him to die out of blood loss but I’m not that kind of person who likes to prolong someone else’s pain. I also hate waiting.
I picked up the kettle and fill it again with water. I hung it above the fire. I took a tea a cup and held it while waiting for the water to boil. A cat meowed in the doorway. It was the same cat. It sniffed the air and calmly walked near the dead body. It then jumped at the bed and curled.
“Oh, so you were afraid of this guy, huh. Then lucky you, this place is all yours now.”
I put some oolong dried leaves on the small strainer, put it on the cup and pour hot water into it.
I let it stand for a while. I went to the journal and flipped it open again. The writing is neither Eastern European or Asian. I looked at the diagrams trying to decipher what it is but the more I looked at it, the more it became obscure. I took the strainer off my cup and sipped. The taste and aroma were strong, assailing my senses.
I lifted the chair and put it outside. I sat there, sipping and staring at the woods. What a nice place he had. It was getting chillier and the smell of the air changed. I finished my tea and quickly put things back in order. Not that the owner is capable of complaining. It was just me. I just left the body where it is. If someone discovers him, then he can be taken care of. If not, then he can be a feast to the cat or other hungry animals that might smell him. Not that he still cares.
That was a nice place indeed. I might pay that cabin and its new owner a visit sometime in the future. As for now, I will just enjoy the last part of the menu. Much of the ice had melted already, the color looks paler and froth is forming at the top. Some of the solid particles had settled down the bottom of the glass.
It was past six in the evening. The twilight is quickly fading. I pretended to take a rest and I sat down in one of the benches. One by one, streetlights are lighting, the reverse of a horror show. The place is very quiet, one of those suburban houses with manicured lawns and trimmed bushes. For three days I jogged in the streets, memorizing every path, people and houses along the way. I heard a woman screaming inside the house. Followed by cutleries loudly crashing on the floor. Then the woman yelled, obviously very upset at someone. A man emerged out of the backdoor of the house. He was halfway out of the door when he quickly turned back. He reemerged again, now carrying a garbage bag, slamming the door behind him. The woman opened the door. She was pregnant. “Don’t forget what I want!” He just grunted. “Hey? Did you hear me?” “Yes, dear. I’ll get you one.”
I followed him. It began to drizzle lightly and the dust on the streets seemed to float up, meeting the droplets halfway. He didn’t quicken his pace. He maintained his slow, steady pace, with heads down. Fifteen minutes later, he turned to a small back alley. I kept a good distance. Then I saw him stop in front of a small coffee shop. The neon sign “Welcome” hanging in behind the glass door was blinking. I followed him inside. He sat down in the seat looking over the street, his back behind the door. I ordered a cup of espresso myself and chose a seat near the door. I looked at his back, hunching over his hot coffee. Deep in his own thoughts, he never bothered to look around his surroundings or the yellowish tint of the approaching night outside.
The drizzle was picking up. Soft jazz music was playing in the ground, accompanied by the sporadic tinkling of cups and faint murmurs of the customers. The cafe might be small and located in an unknown place but they serve good coffee and the ambiance is calming. We drank our coffee in silence. A short moment later he ordered something again. The music changed to a bossa nova song. He stood up and went to the counter. The woman behind the register beamed a too-bright smile at him and said, “Here’s your smoothie, sir. Enjoy and have a nice evening.” He just paid in silence and took the plastic bag with his order. It might be for that woman. I finished my coffee. There was no need to hurry. I saw him turn to his street. Lights in all of the houses are on but I can’t hear any sound from the inside. No dogs barking, no sounds of the TV nor arguments of the occupants. It is as empty and as still as a ghost town.
I started running. He heard my heavy footsteps and looked back but all he saw was just a female jogger running towards his way. He resumed walking, still not bothered by the drizzles. I stopped in front of him. He showed annoyance for blocking his way. When he walked towards me, I immediately plunged the scalpel to his throat. This time, he was surprised. He stopped and held the handle of the blade, still sticking out of his throat.
“Whaat the..?” He tried to look down but the scalpel prevented his head to move down. Blood started to trickle down his mouth.
“Where’s the other one?” I asked.
He just looked at me in confusion. Then it slowly dawned on him. His shoulders started shaking. Then he gave a labored laugh.
“Oh, which one?”
“The one who didn’t do anything. The one who just stood there watching you three do it.”
“Oh…” He laughed again. Small trickles of blood flowed through the thin blade, falling down to his shirt. “So you find the others. Then I will be the last. That other guy, you’ll never find him.”
“I see.” I grabbed the handle of the blade and he immediately grabbed my hand with both his hands, letting go of the smoothie. The sweet strawberry smell wafted through the air. Ah, my most favorite fruit. His eyes glistened with fear. I’m sure that he wants to plead for his life but he never said it out loud. I yanked the blade to the left and he whimpers in pain. “Just say the name,” I whispered. He suddenly let go of my hand. I pushed the blade and slashed through his veins. I stepped back to avoid the blood spray. He stared hard at me, holding his neck, trying to stop the blood. His knees were shaking but refused to buckle down. Until finally, he slumped down, as the lights in his eyes faded. I looked around. Not a single soul peeked out of their windows. I continued walking, past his quiet house. No more screaming and yelling in that house starting tonight. Maybe wailing, yes. It was raining. The wisteria flowers were slightly swaying, colors tinted by streetlights and the darkness of the night. The rain blurred the image, making it look like I’m walking in an oil painting.
On the day of her execution, the guards discovered an empty cell. Her room had no windows and the only door was locked from the outside. They sought her in every corner of the high-security prison but they didn’t see her. They checked the security camera facing her locked door. Not even a shadow left that room after the guards served her last meal the night before. The security camera inside her room only shows that she went to the toilet at around three in the morning. It is the camera’s only blind spot. She vanished into thin air like smoke and that she left behind is that little notebook.
What bothered the people in the facility is that, if she can easily disappear like that, why did she let herself be caught and why wait until the day of her execution before escaping? Of course, no one can answer that question.
Written: July 2018
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