Tally Marks
View(s):
This story is interesting in what it says and what as readers we feel. The murderer is repentant about being lead to death – but at no point do we see him feeling sorry for the woman he killed – it was only the fact that the daughter lost a mother that makes him grieve. He is repentant, yes, but it is interesting to analyze through his words what he is repentant about. Literature should make you be able to do that – see the division between what is said and what it tells us.
Please send in your Flash Fiction contributions to Madhubhashini Disanayaka-Ratnayake, C/o The Sunday Times, No 8, Hunupitiya Cross Road, Colombo 2
Voices rising in heated battle. A woman’s frantic pleas. Shattering glass, blood curdling screams. A river of blood . . .
I jerked awake and sat bolt upright on my bunk. I could feel the powerful thud of my heart against my ribs. It was yet another episode of the nightmares that had been frequenting my sleep. And they had become more repetative with the lapse of time. Sunlight was beginning to filter through the grills of the tiny window in my cell. Despite the welcome warmth it brought into the cold room, I was beginning to despair more than ever. For sleep had been my only escape.
At least for a few hours I could stay oblivious to the horrors of reality. Though not anymore, I realized. That’s the thing about guilt; it will always find a way to get back to you, even when you’ve repented and tried to overcome it. Rather like a vicious monster gnawing at your insides. Or a million daggers thrown at you, all slicing through your flesh simultaneously. Guilt is painful.
My eyes drifted to the row of tally marks scratched on one wall. Some quick calculations revealed something I had almost forgotten. Today, today is the day of Namal’s execution. A sea of memories gushed forth. Poor him! I could not help wondering what was running in his mind now. If he was still alive that is. The thought sent shivers down my spine.
When I first got here a few years ago, I was thrown into a cell housing serial killers, rapists and notorious drug peddlers. I was steeped in confusion and protest. I wasn’t like THEM! I didn’t mean to do it! So what, they’d say. A killer is a killer and that’s that. Trying to find my way around this hellish new abode of mine, I made friends with Nimal. I took a liking to him soon, for both of us shared somewhat similar pasts.
We both had not meant to do what we did. It was just an instantaneous burst of fury, triggered by long term frustration that had made us commit the unthinkable crime. It was mind blowing how life took a turn within a matter of minutes. I was branded a killer, the words seemed to be etched on to me like the tally marks I had carved into the wall. Word just spread around like fire. But not for a moment would anyone pause to think of my plight. Being human we all make mistakes. The only difference was the magnitude of our mistake. I have been denied that second chance of life, despite having resolved to become a better person. If only they knew how sorry I was of robbing my young daughter of her mother. The fact that I could not go back to correct my misdeeds burdened me heavily.
A week ago, Nimal had been moved to another cell. As I watched them lead him away, there was just one thing I could read in his eyes: submission. He had given in. He paused outside my cell and looked at me. “See you on the other side,” he said. And he was gone.
He left me alone to count days till my own one way trip to the gallows.
Saarah Hamdoon