I have waited more than two years to see Edward Grayson hang by his neck until dead. Two summers, two autumns, two springs and two winters have passed since the murders of my wife and brother and still my pain is as fresh as any new wound. Now that the day is here, it brings all the emptiness of a dream come true for a man with no dreams.
Disappointment comes as well as satisfaction, even if for no other reason than I cannot look forward to it anymore. No longer can I count the hours and the minutes and the seconds until the breath is slowly and painfully sucked from the monster's mind and body. The special brand of vengeance that flourishes with time's passage makes one less because it is all. It spreads like a malignancy, poisoning every waking thought, dominating every action and reaction. What he did could never be undone, what was about to be done to him in return would be swift and irrevocable, but, in truth, of only the mildest comfort.
It is cold for early April. I find it odd that I can even think of that as I stand in the early morning mist and take my place as the only mourner among the watchers. Beneath the waiting scaffold I hold my breath and I watch the attendants inspect the drop boards. I hear someone behind me whisper that its purpose is to insure their thickness of three inches each and thereby a quick and easy drop. That makes me unspeakably sad. I want Edward Grayson to swing like a pendulum in unspeakable agony. I NEED him to suffer.
In silence I pray to my own special god. I am suddenly aware of something warm dripping down my cheek and in that instant I remember the cut I sustained while shaving barely an hour ago. With trembling fingers I touch my face. My life force is red and warm as it drips down my cheek. I cry softly to myself and the tears flow down my cheeks and mingle with the blood.
There was something about his name in all the town papers, his image in the courtroom and on the television that kept his humanity at bay. His crimes permanently demonized him as one with his deeds. Being a human being is not always the apex of evolution. No animal I ever heard of killed the way he did. Deep inside his lost soul I know there is a mother's child somewhere, but I cannot feel sorry for him in any way.
He who threw himself so vehemently on the mercy of the court showed none at all to his victims. He who screamed so loudly about how he did not want to die failed to give those he butchered for no reason at all, save the satiation of his own bloodlust, the very same option.
