A goodbye

Dear Sarah,

           I hope you'll excuse me if this letter is not a polished piece of prose. I don't have much time, and I want to get through everything before I leave on my journey. I know this isn't the way we thought we would say goodbye, but there is nothing I can do to change it now. I have no choice. This is not a journey I can get out of. I see from the clock on the wall that it is just coming up to 7am now, and I'm told that I will have to go at 8am sharp. I don't suppose I can expect any delay on that: they're very efficient around here. To tell you the truth, I've had this hanging over my head for so long that I don't think I would even take a delay now if it was offered to me. It's the anticipation that's unbearable. I just want it over with. I'm ready to go now. I worry that a delay might be more than my courage can take.

           I need to hurry if I'm going to get this letter finished, though. One of the staff here promised to see that it was sent to you, as long as I can get it finished before it is time to leave. I'm told that, when it comes to time for departure, there won't be any time to lose. If it's not done by then, it won't be done, and it's not as though I'm going to be coming back from this journey.

           So this is goodbye, then. It's a funny thing, last night I was composing this letter in my head. I was thinking about what I was going to write, but inspiration seems to have departed now, just as I am able actually to put it down on paper. Maybe it's this waiting room that I'm sitting in. It is pretty uninspiring, as waiting rooms tend to be. A waiting room always seems to me to be neither one thing nor another. It is a kind of limbo, which seems to exist almost outside time. In a waiting room, you almost seem to be separated from the world, somehow, in suspense. Do you remember all the time we used to complain about sitting in airport departure lounges? There is something of the same here. This is worse, though. The floor is bare concrete, the walls are the same, and the only natural light comes from a tiny window high up the wall. There is a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I suppose they didn't think that there was any point in making the waiting room comfortable.

           It's 7.20 now, I see. Only forty minutes left. I'd better get on with this. What did I want to tell you? Most of all, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for everything. I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted us to be happy together. From the first time our eyes met at Joe and Diane's party, I knew we were meant to be together. I know it is a cliché, but it's true nonetheless. If I didn't love you so much, I wouldn't be here. It sounds paradoxical, I know, but there you are.

           In my mind's eye, I can see you looking sceptical. You're thinking that, if I loved you that much, I wouldn't have left. I would be with you now, and not sitting in this waiting room with only - let me see - thirty minutes till departure. But doesn't the fact that I'm spending this final hour that I have here on a letter to you? Look, if you are honest, you have to admit that you carry some of the responsibility yourself. You shouldn't have insisted on continuing to see Frank. I know, you said that he was just a friend. When I questioned you, you laughed and said that there was "absolutely zero romantic interest" there, but how was I supposed to believe that? Every time you saw him, I felt like I was being made a fool of. You knew that, didn't you? And yet you carried on seeing him. It's not my fault I couldn't take it any longer.

           It's 9.40 now, so let me hurry on. There's no point in denying things any longer. When I checked the messages in your phone, and saw that you were going to leave me, I knew he was behind it. He was the one who put the idea into your head! So I went to his house. I swear I didn't mean to hurt him. I was never going to hurt him. I just wanted to warn him off, so we could be happy. But he laughed at me, and it was like a red mist came down over my eyes. We were in his kitchen, and I grabbed the knife. The next thing I knew, he was lying in front of me in a pool of blood. So I ran.

           Oh Sarah, what have I done? I just wanted us to be happy. I just wanted us to be together. Please forgive me. If only I could speak to you one last time, throw myself at your feet and beg for your forgiveness. It's too late now, though. I've spoiled everything, and now it's almost 8. It's time to go.

           With all my love,

           John

***

When they entered the condemned cell as the clock struck eight, they found the prisoner standing silently watching the door. The executioner's assistant said, in a soft voice: "It's time to go, John."

           The prisoner gave a slight nod, though he hardly seemed to notice the men who had entered the cell.

           The executioner reached out as if to shake the prisoner's hand. "Don't worry, John. It'll be done right."

           The prisoner stared unseeingly at the hand for a moment before slowly lifting his hand and grasping it.

           Before the prisoner could think, the executioner and his assistant had him pinioned with his arms secured behind his back. They marched him unresisting through the door and round the corner into the execution chamber. They placed the hood over his head, and the noose around his neck. The executioner pulled the lever, the trapdoor opened and the prisoner fell through, leaving on his final journey.

           Afterwards, as the doctor wrote down the time of death - 8.01am - the executioner's assistant entered the condemned cell and saw a sheet of paper with closely lined writing on it. Giving it barely a glance, he picked up the paper and crumpled it into a ball. "Just the usual rubbish they come out with," he muttered. He left, closing the door behind him.