Chapter Seventy-One
One day to Execution Day
I.
SOME HOURS later, Arti heard a key click in the lock of the cell door. She sat up and looked into the face of a man in a gray uniform with a shiny star on his jacket. Three correctional officers stood behind him.
“Artemis Usher,” said the man, “I am Eric Leonard, sheriff of the State. I have come to inform you that His Worship, the High Chancellor, just visited the prison. He has selected you to die tomorrow.”
II.
ARTI SOBBED.
She did not know how much time had passed since the Sherrif had left her alone in the cell. Now, time meant nothing.
As Arti lay on the cot, she thought once more of her life–first, her early childhood in her grandmother’s house that was not a home, then the long, unforgiving years on the street, and still later, her brief but memorable stay at Laurel Green. Alame, Allan, Steward, Cairn, Inspector Louis–and now, in her final hours, the tiny cell… and the moon. Now, she supposed, it was her only companion.
The tears flowed onto her filthy gray pillow. Arti lay there, in the stillness, half awake, half-dreaming, as the moon shone silently down on her.
III.
SEVERAL HOURS passed in the cell. Her thoughts quickly faded; her mind became blank, and her face felt numb. She listened to her heartbeat, cherishing every second of it. The tears had long since dried up.
Footsteps–down the hall.
She sat up just in time to see an unfamiliar correctional officer enter her cell, carrying what looked like a bundle of fabric.
The officer, a tall, bony man, approached Arti. He paused, attempting to make eye contact with her, and unfurled the bundle. “The Chancellery has provided your final garment.”
Arti knew before she saw. She knew from the moment the officer had entered her cell, and she knew now as he held it out in front of her. Never, in 16 years, had a single item brought her such despair.
It was a dress.
The thing was made of white satin, with frills on the shoulders and along the bustle and lacework covering the seams–
Arti took a deep breath. “I–I can’t wear this.”
“You will wear it,” said the officer sharply, “and you won’t give us any trouble.”
For an instant, the old woman’s face flashed before her, its mouth twisted into a cruel smile. Of all the most humiliating punishments–
“I need to speak to the warden.” The words came out before she could even consider them. “I need to speak to him now.”
The officer laughed hoarsely. In seconds, he was gone. The cell door slammed shut.
Arti waited for several minutes, her heart pounding. A dress. Her grandmother had wanted her to wear dresses–she had wanted to tie a ribbon in Arti’s hair and parade her around the neighborhood in frills and curls. Instead, she had worn a suit–not just any suit, but a gentleman’s suit. A tie, an overcoat. Dark glasses. She had worn them to show the world her confidence–her fearlessness.
You’re a girl, thought Arti, but you’re not an object–you’re not an exhibit for the world to dote on. Hell, you were never meant to be!
And now, in her final hours, the authorities would pass upon her this vilest form of humiliation… the loss of her identity.
For the first time since her arrival at the prison, Arti experienced a rush of anger. She stood up, imagining the dress, its frills and swags hissing in the wind as she walked to the Death Chamber. She imagined the chaplain, the children’s choir, the sound of metal dragging on cobbled earth. And then, her blood–staining the white fabric.
The entire process had an eerie formality, a dark air of ceremony, about it. Could this all have simply been a game? A charade? An act designed with the sole purpose of frightening and humiliating her on her last day?
No, she told herself, There’s a much darker reason for it. They’re doing this to you because it makes them feel better. Because it creates a sense of Retribution, a feeling of Justice, a false perception of Order. It lets them save face and defend the atrocity they’re about to commit.
She wanted to scream at the guards and the officers, the Warden, the sheriff, and demand that they acknowledge their participation in the final episode of her life. If she could not prove her innocence, she at least deserved to die on her own terms…
God, Arti–what good does such a feeling do you? Is it really your desire to leave this world in a state of fury and contempt?
The lock clicked open, and a tall, bespectacled man in a dark suit entered her cell, followed by two guards.
V.
THE MAN spoke in a clean but somehow distant voice. “I am Warden Soane…”
He looked down into Arti’s eyes. “And you…”
“Yes, I am the girl that Weameworth condemned to die.”
The Warden’s gaze traveled slowly to the window and lingered on the moon before reverting to Arti.
“How old are you, Artemis?”
“I… I am sixteen.”
One of the guards blinked twice. There was a long minute of silence.
Warden Soane peered at her again through his horn-rimmed glasses. “You have the face of a future, Artemis–a future I know you deserve. There is nothing I can do to stop this execution, but that future… it will forever inhabit my dreams. What is your wish?”
Arti took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her face. “I wish to choose the outfit I die in.”
The cell was still for a moment. Then, the warden spoke. “What outfit do you request?”
“On the last day of my life,” said Arti, “I want to wear a black tuxedo and a pair of dark glasses - large, round ones…” She paused for a moment, glancing at the officer in the doorway, then out the window, and finally at Soane.
“And a bow-tie the color of my blood.”
There was another minute of silence. Finally, Soane nodded at her. “I suppose that can be arranged. We’ll get your measurements as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” said Arti, crying. The two guards simply stared at her.
The Warden turned to leave, motioning for one of the guards to lock the cell again. Then, he paused in the doorway and looked at Arti strangely.
“Why a tuxedo, if I may ask?”
Arti wiped a tear from her cheek. “If I must die, I’ll die my own way.”
________________________________________________________________ From "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF ARTI" by M. Warwickshire Haines
