Francis seemed to spin into consciousness his eyes flashing red as he was surrounded by a pool of red. Tons of red. It didn’t seem to end. His hands shook as he looked down at them, his eyes flashed around the room, bare nothing on the walls but random splatters and then---- a body. His breathing picked up as he got up to see who it was. The face was blurred, unidentifiable but enough to cause a panic.
Suddenly a loud bang rang in his ears causing a large headache to immerse and he was tackled to the floor. His eyes flashing to the body---- bodies. More than one. Who did this.
“I didn’t do it!” he yelled but the men didn’t seem to listen. He was dragged out of the room, bloody, bruised but not a scratch on him. His eyes landed on the crowd that formed outside the building. Strangers mostly crowded but there they were---- his family. They looked angry, at him. This wasn’t right.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” he let out as he was stuffed into a van where he sat with four other men. He was dangerous, he knew the protocol.
He spent days in a cell, alone, no one trusted the murderer. Sure, there were all kind of men here but Francis was supposed to be a good guy. Everyone picked on him but nobody messed with him because some knew what he was capable of and others didn’t want to find out. The sentencing was easy---- GUILTY. He was to be sent into a maximum security facility and was to be killed in two weeks time.
“I’m innocent,” he begged but only received the looks of disgust by the jury.
No visitors. No yard time. No contact.
He was treated like an animal.
He almost felt bad for the villains that were locked up.
Where he was, he was hated---- son of Hawkeye and Mockingbird. The fuck up who somehow killed and ended up in a maximum security facility some even expected him to escape somehow but if he really did kill those people he should be locked up. He felt the urge to escape, to punch a guard, to make tunnel through the walls----- why was he this way?
Two weeks felt like an eternity, he saw a guard open up and tell him, “Write your last meal here.” Francis just stared at the paper, not even acknowledging the man just feeling death’s cold brush up against his spine. He refused to eat, to even look out at the little light that came through his peep hole. Nothing made sense. He wasn’t a murderer.
The time was here.
He was left alone, to walk, guards respecting him and letting him walk alone. The chair was still used here---- injections were outlawed and the chair seemed like the better suit. Francis refused to enter the room turning the guards, “You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t kill those people. I was framed. None of this makes sense.” They didn’t listen, they were like robots, this was their job.
He placed into the chair, shaved his hair and restrained him despite his struggle with the men. Francis was weakened by a punch to the gut, he sat in place, five restraints placed in different parts of his body. Sponge placed on his head and the cap on his above, mouth guard making him gag slightly. This was it.
Systems checked.
Curtain opened.
Everyone was there----- they looked saddened.
“Mom--- Dad---- Alissa,” he called out but they all turned away.
He was hated.
He was a disgrace.
He had to die.
Minor shock was administered followed by a larger shock in which his screams were muffled by the guard. His body was used to pain, unbearable pain but this was too much to handle. He heard a sob then it went blank---- dark.
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