The Mask Maker is a short story I'm writing before NaNo. It comes in little sections, so that is why this is short. What I'm focusing on here is description, so please help me out as much as you can.
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“Edgar Pastor, you have been condemned to death for man slaughter,” Burton announced. He was facing the Mask Maker, but I knew he wasn’t speaking to him. He announced it to the audience sitting behind him, who was waiting eagerly.
“Do you have any last words?” Burton asked the Mask Maker.
The Mask Maker didn’t raise his eyes. He kept them lowered to the floor, where there was a spot of blood from another inmate that had been electrocuted. Burton waited another moment to continue.
“May God have mercy on your soul,” Burton spoke.
I stood at the Mask Maker’s side for the last time. He looked into my eyes. I noticed tears dripping down his face, like blood off his freshly slaughtered victims.
He whispered to me, “I’ll see you in hell.”
Then the electric chair hummed. I cautiously stepped away, but the guard wouldn’t allow me to go further than a step. His tight grip dug into my tender arms. I could hear a faint buzzing as the chair began.
The Mask Maker began howling. His feet were trying to kick, but it was useless; they were bound to a metal band that wrapped around the chair. His arms jolted violently. I watched him. I listened to his piercing roar. The twenty or so witnesses leaned back in their metal folding chairs, their eyes wide with fear. I could see Burton in the back, smiling. The bastard was smiling. I wanted to throttle him. I wanted to take the Mask Maker’s knife like he had wielded not so long ago, and dig into Burton’s face. Would I ever wear Burton’s face? Probably not. I would burn it.
I turned my attention back to the Mask Maker.
I heard him shout, “O God, forgive me!”
I watched the lights (if there were any) leave his eyes. The Mask Maker’s body became as limp as a wet fedora. Burton signaled toward two men, who quickly unbound the Mask Maker’s corpse and heaved it off the chair. There was a puddle of urine left on it. I grimaced, as a knot began to tighten in my stomach.
“Sit,” Burton commanded. The guard that held my arm walked me painstakingly over to the chair, and I sat down in the puddle of urine. I could feel it seeping through my striped clothes. Burton nodded, and another two men approached the chair. I willingly let them bind me to it. My legs and arms were unable to move afterwards. I could feel the wet sponge on the top of my head. The cold water drenched my balded head.
The chair stunk like a freshly skinned corpse.
“Joseph Wells, you have been condemned to death for assistance of man slaughter,” Burton announced, clearing his throat. I glared into his cold eyes.
“Do you have any last words?”
“Burn in hell, you fiend,” I whispered. Burton frowned.
“May God have mercy on your soul.”
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Part two coming soon.
