“They’re gonna fry me tomorrow, Momma. No more stays. Two thousand volts. I heard your heart cooks, and your hair c’n catch fire.”
She can’t believe how calm he is, while her own heart has almost stopped.
“Even dead people still have birthdays, Momma. Will you remember mine?”
The place appals her: Cold stone walls, odours of unclean drains, barking sounds that could be dogs or other prisoners. The visits always crackling with the shame and guilt of their dirty deeds. Hers, his abandonment at birth for adoption. His, the meth-fuelled murder of an ex-girlfriend.
His lawyer had somehow tracked her down. A hard-earned forty-one years, and a bad-assed twenty-one years, drawn back together by common blood and circumstances.
For every visit she’s had her hair done specially, put on her best shoes and the floral dress she wears to church.
When she tries to touch his hands across the table, the guards bring the visit to an abrupt close.
She will decline the right to be a witness, but knows the family of the victim will be there to drink greedily of it.
As they take him away, he turns and says, “Your eyes can pop too.”
Jeff Taylor lives in New Zealand and enjoys writing short fiction. Some of his nonsense has actually won prizes in NZ and overseas.
This story was shortlisted in the April 24 Monthly Micro Competition.