untitled

“How wrong we were to think that immortality meant never dying.” —Our Lady of Sorrows

It was hard to blame Devin Murphy for why he was where he was. Perhaps had he resisted the call of the red line that would undoubtedly lead him to his own demise, but in a final moment of human weakness the thought occurred too late.

Life as Devin Murphy was pleasant: family, work and relaxation until the day of his death. While nobody saw their own end so near it was there lurking as always beneath the placidity of life.

People say to live your life in hopes it goes out with a bang, not a whimper. Devin agreed with most people.

He wasn’t always a cold-blooded killer. But as they say, sometimes the devil makes work for idle hands. When he came to his senses, the deed was done, and it was too late for regret. The blade slipped from his hand and as the world sank into a pool of red, so did his conscience. While death was imminent, he still dreamed of a better future with his family and the promise of a clean slate.

Nowadays, he often woke up in his cell, expecting to hear his mother call him from the kitchen for church on a Sunday morning. For all the crimes he was charged, she would never talk to him anymore.

She would never talk again.

Tethered to the hard cot of his prison bed, he began to break from this trance by regaining touch with the world. The muffled shouts from the corridor outside had finally come into clarity and his surroundings had come into focus. The stale smell of iron. Bleach. Worry. The guards yelling.

Deep in the belly of the prison, there were rumours of…a ghost. They said that if you walked past a certain corridor at night, you would see a silhouette of a man peering through the bars of the door. And if you looked closely you could make out a pair of red eyes.

Devin Murphy didn’t believe in ghosts. He was a practical man and had never once been given reason not to be. But days in the prison were long, and the tedium of the waiting game was unbearable. So, he indulged in the rumour, sometimes. He even went as far as trying to catch it, keeping vigil in the corridor until the middle of the night.

Nothing. There was nothing but the sound of rats and the occasional shift change of the guards.

“Murphy, quit making no damn noise and go to sleep. I ain't dealing with your chatter in the middle of the damn night, again. You haven't even got the balls to do it, your stupid-ass ghost stories ain't helping nobody none," the prison warden grumbled. "Lights out already. What are you, a vampire?"

"Vampires aren’t real." Devin muttered, unfazed by the disgruntled warden.

"Go on and keep that up, see what happens. Good ol' solitary in the box for the both of ya."

Silence befell them once more.

The truth was, Devin only heard the voices of other prisoners—there was a whole crowd of them at 3 pm. Noontime wasn't the prime time for their craziest but talk was, after all, cheap, and they would argue over the slop served in the meal room. Sometimes, it was something silly and meaningless like who might be pardoned from death row first. Other times it was a quarrel over personal items, miscommunication, anything. The point was that there was just so much of it to overhear. Conversations. People bickering and fighting and yelling from all directions.

From his end, there was a low hum. Was there, perhaps a little bit of commotion? He couldn't recall properly. He wouldn't remember just yet.

He was busy finishing up on his supper. To think that four hours prior, he had had his last supper. Quite ironic. His mouth had become so numbed to the bland and unvaried cuisine that a little rat poison would even be welcome as the sting of pepper might have been.

Somehow, that was all he could think about.

Being Devin Murphy right now would have been strange. When you're preparing for something as grave as your last meal, when you were facing your own impending mortality, the way your room looked would seem trivial. You wouldn't miss the moldy walls covered by ugly paint, or the stained lice-infected pillow from the crinkled white linen you were lying on.

The food... at the very least, Devin would miss the food.

Considering how Devin Murphy has come to view his death with resignation, it could be said that he spent his last few days on earth simply trying to pass the time. Preparation of his conscience for his impending doom was, naturally, more evident on some days, more subdued on others.

Even the most hardened of criminals could still be reduced to tears by the promise of the end. Even if that promise meant the untimely death meted out by the government. Even Devin Murphy knew that he missed the world. He missed fresh air, the scent of freedom, boredom. Those memories flashed each time he closed his eyes, and even though the mind wants to forget, it is only human. So, he let it all come to him. Like a tide, like those times in winter, like tropical beaches in his childhood, letting the waves wash over him. And at night, he would dream sometimes of a different place, a different reality. Other times, he dreamed of the dead, visiting him from the afterlife, just to spite him.

It was the night before the execution, and he couldn't sleep. He didn't need at a clock to know it was past three in the morning.

He lay motionless on his bed, not making a single noise.

A rattle. A scraping sound.

And then something else.

Something was approaching.

He squinted, trying to make out the silhouette, but it was difficult. The lighting was dim, and it was late.

The sound of metal against metal echoed in the corridor, and then the door swung open with a heavy creak. There was a visitor. There was an intruder.

"Devin Murphy?" the intruder said.

Devin shuffled uncomfortably. "Who wants to know?"

There was a moment of silence, and then the man spoke.

"I've come to see you."

The voice was low, but it wasn't threatening.

It sounded... human.

"What do you want?" Devin asked, unsure what to say.

"You're the one on death row, yes?"

"I—yes. Why?"

"Because you've done a lot of terrible things."

Not a question, but it seemed like it. Devin was jolted to his senses. It felt like waking up from a deep sleep.

"Listen, I don't need a lecture from some freak in a mask," he snapped.

The intruder raised a hand, silencing him.

"How did you get in here?" Devin’s eyes darted around the room. It was dark, he couldn't see anything.

"That's not important."

"Well then, fuck off."

"Why should I?" the other man asked. "You're not going anywhere."

Devin remained silent.

Sometimes, fate had a twisted sense of humor. Just as he was resigning himself to the end, to the afterlife, a stranger entered his cell. Devin stared, slack-jawed, unable to comprehend what was happening. As he looked closer, however, he noticed a set of eyes staring back.

Red.

No doubt that was the guy.

It was him.

Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, Devin had recognized him. The ghost.

“Tonight, you will die.”

The man did not raise his voice, but it was loud and clear. It rang out in Devin’s head like a bell.

"W-who the hell are you??"

Without warning, the ghost moved quickly toward him. Devin leapt back in surprise, his body colliding with the wall.

It happened within the blink of an eye. In a matter of seconds.

"No. No, stay away!"

But the man advanced.

Before Devin could utter another word, the man's arm shot out, landing a clean strike in the space between his eyes. With a dull thud, his back was thrown against the wall.

"Ack-"

And then, with a deafening crack, a pair of what felt like needles pierced through his throat.

The ghost said nothing. He didn't have to. He was already gone.

The ghost wanted him dead. Dead and gone.

Devin didn't know how long he'd been lying there. He saw his mother's face. He could feel her hands touching his cheek and ruffling his hair. She smiled, revealing the gap between her teeth. He remembered the warmth, the firmness of her embrace.

"Mama, it hurts."

It was the last thing he would ever say.

They say that when you die, it would feel like going to sleep. But Devin wasn't tired. No. Not at all.

It wasn't until he found himself staring into his mother's lifeless eyes, just a few moments earlier, that he had any understanding of what was happening. What had just happened. What was still happening.

His blood had turned into ink. It poured from his neck and down the front of his shirt. The ground was stained with it.

The man was crouching beside him. He was shaking.

Was he laughing?

The ghost—no—whatever the hell it was, was laughing.

The man leaned close and whispered something. He breathed, his breath cool, crisp. Almost inaudible:

"You’re free now."

Devin Murphy didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. Dead people don’t blink, they don’t do anything, and now Devin Murphy was one of them.