Stellan Hinz

You have been shot. You become aware of this fact not by pain but by sight. You are looking at your body tied to a wooden post, blindfolded, shackled, and bleeding. Well, not exactly bleeding. Your body has blood pouring from it but time has either slowed or frozen in the moment immediately after impact. Your body is not yet covered in the spray and the liquid has not had time to seep into your clothes. You think of those Soviet era paintings of dying commissars as you walk around the body that no longer holds your mind. 

Further inspection reveals that you have actually been shot five times. That is to say five people are standing opposite you with guns pointed and emptied. Of the five shots you know one was a blank, one was a miss which is hovering in the air beside your left temple, one hit your left thigh, the next your larynx, and the last wriggled its way past your ribs to clog an aortic valve. That last one is the cause of the most blood, but your neck is producing the most dramatic display. You were shot, or executed by firing squad as they say, because of a crime. The details are fuzzy. You think certain details, like whether or not you were guilty, are stuck rolling around in your corpse instead of whatever you are now. The details may not have made the journey with the rest of your mind, but you remember thinking that the punishment was a little harsh.

You look at your body for a long time. You think of molasses, and honey, and promotional photography for water parks as you accept that you are looking at an object which was once you. You feel anger and betrayal and sorrow, but it’s a far away feeling. It’s surprisingly easy for you to compartmentalize your death.

Your attention turns to the five men. You walk (or float or whatever) in front of the first one in the line. Young, early twenties you think. Clean shaven. Wearing a blue button down and dark brown cargo pants. In one of the pockets is a J.D. Salinger novel. You wouldn’t have been friends. You look in his eyes. Hazel-ish. You touch his mind. It touches back. The imprint it leaves is just one word repeated

“Killer, Killer, Killer, Killer, Killer, Killer, Killer…”

It’s spoken like an affirmation.

Next in line you see a larger man. His hands are rough, dockworker you think. Tarnished gold wedding band. A friendship bracelet far too girlish compared to the rest of him. You bend down to read a name written out on dice-like beads. “Angela” and when you look at him, when his soft brown eyes meet yours, you get a flash of the face of a twelve year old girl. Only for a second. Maybe you looked like her? You can’t remember.

You glance to the next of your executioners. You notice his glasses, his cable-knit, sweater, his fine fabric slacks, and brown loafers. You wonder if there was a dress code for your execution and if any of them actually followed it. As soon as your gaze meets the whites of his eyes he’s no longer standing. He is sitting at a desk which has materialized before him. His gun has been replaced with a pen and there’s a yellow legal pad in front of him. You can’t exactly read what’s written, like when you’re dreaming, but you know what it says. It’s a think piece. A think piece about killing you. You can tell from the fervor of his writing stance and the glimmer in his eyes that he expects your death to make him a pretty penny. You try to spit on the paper. You fail.

At this point you try to conjure some more memories. Your name? Your crime? Your last meal? All gone. One thing surfaces. You think of the round face and comforting eyes of a small persian cat. She was a runt. Were you also? Is that why you got her? You hear a soft purr as that same cat appears at the feet of your old body. She circles it while dusting its shins with her tail. The cat balls herself up beneath you and begins to sleep so soundly that she seems frozen like the rest of the scene. You try to pet your(?) cat. You don’t have hands. You suddenly hope that she isn’t, or more importantly wasn’t, your cat. You return to the line.

The next man’s hands are cracked with age. You follow the lines of his face to faded grey eyes. He looks angry? No, focused. He looks at your body with focus, and contentment, and malice, and justice.

You’re somewhere else. The old man is with you. The light is different. Pinkish? It looks unnatural. You doubt that the vision you are seeing is literally bathed in pink light. Maybe it’s sunset? You notice that the light seems brightest around the old man. You’re in a kitchen. His kitchen. All the appliances are white. The fridge is decorated loudly. Grandkids, graduations, a flyer for a pizza place. A black and white photo  stands out to you. The old man many years ago with a smiling bride. He isn’t currently wearing a ring. He stands in front of a calendar in the same clothes he wore to your execution. He’s making a tally on the calendar. The old man is keeping track of “GOOD DEEDS” and you are the latest addition to his count.

You try to push the old man. You fail. You can’t bring your non-body close enough to use your non-hands to give this creep a piece of your non-mind. You scream. There is a shaking of the light around you. A gurgling sound bellows from you. The noise is jagged and rattles against the bullet lodged in your throat.

The vision starts to move. The old man falls and scrambles on the floor clutching his ears. He heard you. He looks around as the soft pink light is replaced with a pale green. Blood starts to flow from the white appliances and cabinets. The grout of the tiled floor is replaced with viscera as you hear him scream and see the fear on his face. You scream back and watch the walls shake. The man writhes on the floor. You savor the retribution of a banshee. One more scream brings things clattering off of the fridge and the walls. The sound heats the air like hell and the calendar begins to burn. The old man grabs a crucifix which fell next to him. The old man is covered in blood, praying, and holding a cross out to spite you. He passes out. As he becomes unconscious your haunting fades. You see the blood retreat and the grout reappear. The calendar is smoldering on the ground. You see only one scrap of paper survived. It reads “GOOD DEEDS.”

You return to the firing squad. The old man stands before you the same as he did before. As you look away from him you realize, somehow, that he was given the blank. You touch his mind and try to leave that knowledge for him. You feel his childish disappointment in response. 

The final man is shaking. He would be, you realize, if he wasn’t frozen. His eyes are remorseful. You look into them and the light changes again. It’s 3am dark. You see him sitting at a table holding a bottle of cheap vodka, half empty. “Another haunting?” you think. You don’t have the same impulse to scream as before. This one feels a little too pathetic for that. You have a suspicion that he hit you in the heart. How poetic. At least he isn’t gleeful. You move closer and go to touch the hand holding the vodka bottle. You can’t help but feel a little sorry. Soft spot for the pathetic? He unfreezes at your touch and you see his face soften. Some of his guilt melts from his body and you hear his thoughts.

“It’s fine. I couldn’t have done anything. I probably got the blank. I’m fine. I should go to bed, take the day off tomorrow. Won’t volunteer for one of those again. Why did I do it in the first place? Best to just forget. I should forget the whole thing. Sleep and forget and move on. That’s best. That’s best. I’m fine.”

That wasn’t what you hoped to hear. He seems less pitiable as he dismisses your murder. You can’t accept that he’d let you slip into uncomfortable memories and unexamined regret. You let him hear the scream. You show him the bullet lodged in your heart and that he’s the one who put it there. You see his eyes go wide and white as milk. You imagine hell and burning and push it into his mind. You feel guilt surge through his veins. You show him the spurt of blood from your neck over and over again. You let him hear the joy of the other man in the firing squad.

“Killer, killer, killer, killer, killer, killer, killer…”

He collapses and bursts into tears as he pounds his forehead into the table. “Am I making him do that?” you think. You aren’t. Blood squeezes its way out of his face as he slams it into the table repeatedly. Still not, directly, your doing. He stops, crying softly. A long moment passes between him and himself. You feel a small hand raise in the crowded lecture hall of your thoughts begging to ask a question.

“What can he do about it now?”

You kneel next to the table and meet his eyes staring blankly along the wood grain. You turn your head. You align your face with his and his pupils suddenly dilate.

You don’t know what exactly you intended to show him, but you see things you hadn’t remembered up to that point. Protest anthem, gunshots, pushing over a cop, more gunshots, hitting the ground. Jail, lawyer, jail, TV, lies on the news, courtroom. Cell, white toast with scrambled eggs, white van, blindfold, fencepost, gunshots, black.

You’re looking at the man again. Pity is in his eyes. He sees you, almost. You touch his mind again and your scream is mixed with the protest anthem. You see him holding a banner and a flaming bottle as people rush into an important looking building. Seeing the white pillars again makes your head run cold. His eyes have shifted from pity to thanks and resolve. He still almost sees you and tries to say something but he can’t find the words. You hope he does someday.

You’re back on the post, time frozen again. The man who almost saw you is gone. You look down and see your cat. You remember her now. Your sweet little cat. She nuzzles into your ankle and walks off behind you. You hope she’s headed home. The men with guns, faces now blank, having done their good deed being to move slowly. You realize this is the end. You hope one last time for your cat, for the man who almost saw you, for everyone you didn’t have time to remember.

You cease.

You have been shot.

You are dead.