Aaron Rickel

Slam!

The desk shuddered as the gavel crashed down upon its mahogany face.
A somber silence swept over the room. The judge peered down at Mr. Lance, his
spectacles glistening over the crest of his throne, as if conviction were not chilling
enough.

"Mr. Lance," his voice boomed. "Do you understand your sentence?"

Mr. Lance looked down at his feet as he shrugged his shoulders to hide his
shame. The chains which bound his wrists to the steel bench clinked lightly together.

"Court adjourned," cried the judge. The bailiff grasped Mr. Lance's now cold
hands and led him up from the desk toward the rear exit. Te glares from the jury pierced
Mr. Lance's conscience as a knife. No amount of tears or sympathy could undo the
consequence that now surely awaited him.

The exterior walls of the hallway were a bone chilling white. He hum of
fluorescent lights penetrated far beyond the confines of the hall, emanating an evil not
quite understood by either Mr. Lance or the bailiff. His slow, steady footsteps echoed in
the pale, breaking the otherwise silent journey. Before him rose a cold, black door. The
darkness in the other side seemed to seep out through the threshold, chilling all who
drew near. As the bailiff turned the shiny knob, Mr. Lance's breath escaped the prison
cells of his lungs. He went along quietly, entering the dark room.

Mr. Lance did not resist through the preparation of the procedure. The only
sounds were the metal clasps that gripped the leather around his alert skin and the
beating of his own, guilty heart. He seemed to relax as the preparation came to a close
and the bailiff exited the room. There was a brief silence.

Electricity snapped the silence of the room. Mr. Lance let out a single anguished

cry.

Silence.