Fiat Justitia

His skin was covered with a layer of grime. Not that he could see it, mind you. It was too dark in his tiny room to see his own hands. Yet he could feel it. It was a mixture of something slimy and gritty, like sand and jelly. Just thinking about jelly made his mouth water, and soon his saliva joined the dirt on his arm. When was the last time the slot on his door opened to give him food? He’d lost all sense of time.

           There was some semblance of happiness, in his prison. The room could not have been any larger than a closet, big enough for him, and only him. He sat in the corner, trying and failing to rub some of the mess off himself. His once white teeth had become chipped and yellowed, and his shirt was ripped and torn so that only patches remained on him. But he was alive, in here, where the sun did not shine, and the rats came out to play. At least he could say that. He couldn’t be sure the others were so lucky.

           Then again, some form of timekeeping would be nice. The first few days, he had screamed and begged to be released, but no one would bother to answer him. He would spend his days (however many had passed) shivering in a corner, crying like a child for his mother, sleeping, waking up, crying, repeat. Sometimes his captors would come in to either feed him or beat him. There was no rhyme or reason to which they did.

           Each time they opened the door, a sliver of holy, white light shone through the crack, just for a moment. Freedom, he used to think, in those early days. Now he just cowered away from the light that burned his unaccustomed eyes.

           But there, was that the stomping of feet? The man quickly turned his eyes to the side, just in time as the door opened. The light came in, uncomfortably stabbing at his face. He immediately closed his eyes, even putting his hands to his face to block it out further. He thought he could hear two guards talking, though everything they said sounded garbled. He wasn’t sure if he didn’t understand them because he had been in his cage for so long, or if at some point during his beatings, they had damaged his ears. He supposed it didn’t matter.

            Food, he tried to ask. His stomach was twisting inside his body. It felt as if knives were carving into his very flesh, cutting him from the inside out. Someone kicked him, and he quickly shut back up. The guards continued to talk over him. The man lowered his hands from his face, risking a peek at the open door. The light burned, assaulting his eyes.

           The ringing in his ears dulled enough for him to hear the men in front of him speak. There were two, both much younger than himself, with identical brown hair hanging over their faces.

           “—should keep him here,” the first said, barely giving his captive a glance. “Let him rot for his crimes.”

           “You heard Gabe.” The second man had a much deeper voice. He shrugged, grabbing the prisoner’s right arm and hoisting him up. “It’s time for your trial. Fiat Justitia.”

           “Fiat Justitia,” the other parroted, taking the captive’s other arm. The man had been sitting ever since he had been put in his box. His legs could barely support his weight, and he had to depend on his guards to get outside. And speaking of outside—the man’s eyes began to water, but he couldn’t look away. He was outside, with green grass blowing side to side in the breeze. Other people of varying shades stood in a semicircle around him, all younger than him by at least ten years. The guards dropped him on the ground.

           The prisoner contemplated escape. Perhaps, with enough adrenaline, he could run through the crowd into the woods. He’d be gone in minutes. But considering he could barely stand, he figured he wouldn’t get far. Especially as his guards turned a pair of guns at him.

           “Gabe!” shouted the guard with the deeper voice, poking the prisoner with the muzzle of the gun. “It’s time, so get over here. We all have more important things to be doing than this stupid trial of yours.”

           The crowd shuffled to the side, allowing a young man—no, boy was more fitting—to come to the front. He had to at the very least be 17, maybe 18. Gabe was obviously trying to grow out a beard and failing. His chin was peppered with scruffy red fuzz. A hat, maybe a Stetson, sat on his equally red hair. Despite his young age, the people in the crowd must have held a great deal of respect for him. The people shuffled backward while their supposed leader came forward.

           Gabe cleared his throat. “I know, believe me. We’ll get through with this and then we can all get our work done for the day, sound good?” The crowd murmured their consent. Gabe pulled a small silver gun from his hip and fingered the trigger.

“Good, let’s carry on then. Daniel Carey, you have been accused of the kidnapping and murder of people surrounding the area of Greensville, and after investigation, we have found these claims to be true. Have you anything to say?”

Dan licked his lips. Had he been in his right mind, maybe he would have asked for evidence against him. Otherwise, this was no fair trial. However, Dan had long since forgotten what fair was. His stomach growled, loudly, so that the whole group could hear. Gabe frowned as spit bubbled over Dan’s lips.

“Food,” Dan whispered, ignoring the muzzle the guard still had to his head. “Please.”

“Did you or did you not have involvement with the murder of multiple people?” Gabe’s question was dismissed by a woman in the crowd, who laughed without any real mirth.

“Is that even a question at this point? Just shoot him and end this already, Gabe.”

“This is a trial, and I will have some ounce of respect for it!” Gabe scowled at the woman, which quickly shut her up, before turning back to Dan. “Answer the question.”

“Will you give me food?” Dan whimpered. Gabe frowned but nodded.

“I’ll…certainly end your hunger.”

Dan wiped his mouth with his hand, spreading grime over his lips. “You can’t blame me,” he tried to say with hands outstretched toward Gabe. “You can’t blame me. I was so hungry; we were so hungry. I had to provide for them, you can’t blame me, can you?” Instead of making Gabe sympathetic, Dan had only managed to make the younger man look sick. Someone in the crowd gagged, but Dan wasn’t sure who.

Gabe composed himself, clicking the hammer of his gun back.

“Well,” he said, motioning the guards away, “that takes care of that. Daniel Carey, you have been seen in the eyes of the law and been found wanting. You leave us no choice but to uphold justice, what little of it is left.”

Dan held out his hand to Gabe, like a child asking for a toy. “Food?” he asked once more. Gabe almost looked sorry for him as he leveled the gun at his forehead.

“Fiat Justitia,” Gabe whispered.

“Fiat Justitia,” answered the crowd.

Fiat Justitia screamed the bullet.