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The Accused

Emerson · 2007-08-04T22:14:05Z

The Accused By Claudette “There are crowds of people all around, shouting, clamor, ten thousand face, ten thousand eyes—you have to bear it all, but the main thing is the thought: ‘there’s ten thousand of them , and they’re not executing any of them, but they’re executing me!’”— The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky Pavel Ippolitovich disliked his shackles, he disliked that, upon walking into the cart, he had stepped into animal droppings, and he especially disliked that he was going to be killed today. “I didn’t do it,” Pavel mumbled to the driver, who could be seen through the slates of the window. “Of course you didn’t, but I’m just the driver. You should tell that to the man at the scaffold.” The driver slid the wood block over the window, and closed Pavel into the dark. He sat down on the floor of the cart. Pavel knew this cart was normally used to move animals to other towns, but on occasions like this it had to be used to move prisoners. An animal to the slaughter, is that what I am? “I didn’t do it!” he shouted. The driver said nothing. The cart jumped on the rocky path. Pavel couldn’t hear anything except for the trod of horse hooves and the wheels rolling over stone. It was better than the constant silence within prison. “Will we be there soon? I need to tell them, please let me tell them when I get there. I didn’t do it!” The driver pulled the block away from the window, and light pierced darkness. “We’ll be there when I take you out. I told you I’m only the driver; you can’t beg me for your life. Besides, we know you killed her. You told everyone you killed her.” “I did not!” Pavel’s words were silenced by the wooden block again. Did the driver realize he was taking a man to his death? He was the earthly boatman over the river Styx—only the river was a rocky path and the boatman a local peasant. “I did not do it,” he whispered. Pavel tried to ignore thoughts of what was to come. He counted the wooden slates that made the cart’s walls as a means of avoidance. He started to examine them closer: the holes in places, the light that seeped through the cracks, the letters carved into some areas. This will be your end, do not enjoy it was scratched into the wood over and over again in one corner. Pavel realized he wasn’t the only man to ride this cart to death, but he felt no empathy for the ones that came before him. He wasn’t guilty, why should he feel what they had? Perhaps because he was being taken to the same place: his death. They will lay the rope around my neck, onto my shoulders. Position me in the right spot, so I fall just when they decide. Maybe they’ll let me suffer for a while, asking myself if I will hang now. No, now. Now? Then finally they’ll pull it and I’ll drop, surprised, and feel the blood rush into my cheeks and the air being locked out, and my eyes will roll and turn blue. Or maybe my neck will snap and I’ll die too quickly to notice anything. Pavel failed to keep from thinking nasty things. He continually saw himself swaying from right to left on the rope, until they cut him down and threw his body into the pit, with other men. He rubbed his face and felt how dirty it was. Dirt under his nails, pressed into his pores. They could have cleaned me before killing me, give me some honor. Pavel was horrified. The moment the cart stops, so does everything else. And when it did stop, he leapt to his feet, “I did not do it!” Pavel heard someone fumble with the locks, then the door swung open. The light jumped into the cart and chased the dark out. It singed Pavel’s eyes as they adjusted. “I told you already. I am the driver .” He grabbed Pavel’s shackles and pulled him out. “You’re terribly annoying, and for that, I’m glad they are hanging you.” Now out of the cart, Pavel could see the awaiting scaffold. It was a stage with a swarm of viewers eager to see the show, rather than a contraption of death. Pavel’s stomach caught fire and dropped at the sight. He was their feast, and they would devour every piece of him with their eyes. As he was lead up the steps to the scaffold, he lowered his eyes. “Here is Pavel Ippolitovich Chemerkin, who is to be hanged for murder,” spoke the executioner to the crowd. “Sir, I am not guilty!” Pavel cried. The executioner laughed. “I am not a judge, young man.” Pavel’s gaze swung to the crowd as the noose was pulled around his neck. He recognized the angelic face near the front, and his heart jumped from his chest. “Marfa Fedotova, tell them I did not do it! You know I did not do it!” Marfa shook, undoubtedly on the verge of hysterics. “You were there, you saw everything. Was it I who killed your daughter?” The execution chuckled while tightening the noose. “Tell us, Marfa Fedotova, did he kill your daughter?” Her sobs and shaking stopped altogether. She suddenly gained composure. “Yes.” Pavel felt a chill run down his back. It felt like he had buried himself in snow; the chill spread throughout him. “Marfa, please , tell them I did not—” The body dropped, and Marfa heard it’s neck snap. It convulsed, then ceased to move. She crossed herself and prayed. “Did he really kill your daughter?” a man whispered. Marfa trembled. “No, but someone needed to be blamed.” --- I certainly think I have bumps in some parts, but otherwise, I really enjoyed writing this. All critiques are greatly appreciated. Some things I'm concerned about: 1. the sudden depersonalization/POV change. 2. The ending. 3. the characterization of Pavel. If I could get comments on these, I'd be so happy. ^_^

Kit

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Thu Nov 22, 2007 2:33 am

Kit says... · Thu Nov 22, 2007 2:33 am

Oh yeah, just one ore thing, why did you call it "The Accused" and not "The Condemned"?

Princess of Parataxis, Mistress of Manichean McGuffins

ATreeah

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Points 940

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Wed Sep 24, 2008 2:33 pm

ATreeah says... · Wed Sep 24, 2008 2:33 pm

to try to better incorporate the POV change you were worried about you could use a narrator at the beginning and end maybe the person who was killed or the killer i don't know but it might help clean it up a bit.

ATreeah was here

It's not nice to roast people when they're out of comebacks.
— Atticus

The Accused

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