Sam Logan

Guilty. 

They lock people up for all kinds of reasons. 

Dissent. Distribution of banned books. Dressing too masculine if you’re a woman, like me. All under the guise of “law and order”.

Prisons packed – overflow sent to reopened institutions where the walls still bleed screams from the past. 

Fluorescent lightbulbs burn bright overhead and ricochet off faded white walls. 

Forced to sit in an old restraint chair, an officer brings me a last meal on a silver platter. A sauteed parade of peppers, onions, and broccoli. Fruits spread out like a rainbow – watermelon, oranges, pineapples, kiwis, blueberries, and plums. Savory spices and sweet citrus overwhelm me. My mouth waters. 

I refuse to lift a finger and place any morsel on my tongue – a final act of resistance. 

The officer glares at me and hauls away the food. He comes back, straps me in. 

Tick tock. Black hand on the wall clock softly clicks. An hour passes, then another. Leather rubs my wrists raw. 

A metal door opens and figures wearing hoods, masks, and boots enter. The whites of their eyes a sharp contrast to their void-black clothes. A patch on their long-sleeved shirt – sewn right where their heart should be – is a blood-red insignia, the scales of justice. Rifles slung across their backs like they’re wannabe freedom fighters. They are the system. They are sheep who follow blindly into the darkness. They are cowards. 

No badges. Unofficial. Average citizens.They won a lottery to slaughter a traitor and please a leader and I’m their prize. Sweat beads across my brows.  

The firing squad – all men – line up behind a red line painted on the floor, about fifteen feet in front of me. The State doesn’t bother to hide them behind a wall like they used to. 

One more person enters the bleach-scented, sterile room with padded walls and a sluice drain for the aftermath – a man wearing a white lab coat, stethoscope around his neck and clipboard in hand. Cropped brown hair. Thick, black glasses. The Medical Examiner prepared to make his declaration.  

Pulse pounds my temples.

I won’t give these walls any more screams. 

A loudspeaker crackles to life.

“Ready!” a disembodied voice booms. 

The riflemen bring their weapons over their head and press them against shoulders. Bolts slide back and forth and bullets click into chambers. 

I don’t want to die. And for what? Because I wore a shirt with too many buttons. A baseball cap. Jeans instead of a skirt. We didn’t think they’d enforce the Federal Dress Code. Not with everything else going on. 

“Aim!” Barrels lift as one. 

Staring into my murderer’s empty, masked faces, my breath rasps in panicked heaves. I can taste gunmetal on my tongue, as if the barrels are shoved in my mouth. I wish I’d filled my mouth with rainbow-fruit after all. 

I shut my eyes tight until specks of light flicker in the darkness and conjure an image – our daughter, Alex. Hazel eyes. Round face with rosy cheeks. Braided, brown pigtails that bounce as she walks. What kind of world will she live in? 

“Fire!”

Opening my eyes, a scream escapes from deep within my chest. 

CrackCrackCrackCrackCrackCrackCrack.

Sam’s prompts were: In an Institution, a Medical Professional, an Uneaten Meal

Sam Logan (he/him) emerged in 1984 from the depths of the Chesapeake Bay off the Maryland shore. He made it to Oregon where he is a university professor in kinesiology and teaches courses about punk and body horror. Sam lives with his partner, kiddo, and Dune the dog. He has stories in Mouthfeel Fiction, Punk Noir Magazine, Divinations Magazine, Major 7th Magazine, Underbelly Press, and Wallstrait, among others. Find him at samloganwrites.com