Lethal

He sat and watched. Person after person walked by, and yet, none of them tweaked his interest. He'd been at it all morning, and for now he decided to give up. He stood up slowly, and left his discarded cup of coffee. Why should he care about littering, when by the end of the month he would hopefully sitting on death row anyway? He walked out of the train station, and kept his eyes down. He didn't want to look at anyone, didn't want to look them straight in the eye. Maybe he just didn't want to seem suspicious, or maybe he just didn't want to see into their soul. The weight of what he wanted to do sat on his shoulders, it had for a while now, but he was resigned to it.

His name was Bert, short for something more embarrassing. He knew who he was. A middle aged man, with no children due to many failed relationship attempts. A small apartment, an unimportant job. Nothing that mattered. He also knew from many psychotherapy sessions, that he was neurotic. Defined by depression, and bipolar disorder. He was once happy, but that was some time ago, and didn't seem to be in his future. He had nothing to live for, but couldn't end it himself. He knew he was a coward. But that's ok, because he had found a way. He'd let old, reliable capital punishment take care of him. That is if he didn't sit on death row for three years.

He stepped out into the daylight, the sun blinding. He squinted against the sun and the bitter breeze; cold, even for an October morning. Behind him, he heard someone else exit the building as well, followed by a violent hacking cough. Sounded like there was fluids in the man's lungs, maybe pneumonia? His hand twitched around the 9mm in his pocket. He had found his guy. He didn't want to say victim, it sounded too cliché. He pulled his brown trench coat around him tighter, and turned to look at the man, avoiding his eyes. He was clothed in a navy business suit, with a backpack slung across his shoulder. A commuter no doubt, coming to the big city of Philly for work. He had a hard, unreadable face. And muddy brown eyes. Nothing special about him.

The man gained his composure from the violent coughing fit, and started to walk at a brisk pace. Late for work, Bert guessed. He followed the man in the blue suit, but lagged a few people behind. Didn't want to seem suspicions now, he had gotten this far already. The guy turned the corner and stopped to cough again. Pulling a tissue from his pocket he wiped his mouth. The street was relatively empty. No children to witness the coming events. He didn't want to scar them the way he was.

It was time, now or never. Bert didn't want the guy to see his death coming, so he would aim for the back of the head. But he couldn't do that either, that was gross, although it would kill him instantly. No, Bert pulled out the gun and with a steady hand, aimed for his back. After a deep breath, he fired his first shot. The bullet ripped clean through the man's chest. He fell forward onto his knees, and even from the distance they were apart, he could hear the man struggling to catch his breath. Bert shot one more bullet, hitting the man on the opposite side. Blood was seeping from the wounds now, much more so than Bert had expected. 

He heard people scream, but his mind slowly went blank. The adrenaline was rushing through his body. He didn't care about anything, anymore. He felt relief that his own death was also close. Sirens crept closer to them, and he barely felt it when someone tackled him and pinned him to the ground. He didn't resist.   

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It was his big day, he was excited. His stay in prison wasn't that bad. During the trials, he had pleaded guilty. No remorse, or regret in his expressions. Everyone hated him. But that's alright, they already did before this happened. He was getting the lethal injection option, which was found to be the most humane. He had asked for steak and potatoes for his last meal, and was surprised when they gave it to him. He was even more surprised when it had tasted good. He was also surprised to hear that his "victim" had survived. He needed many blood transfusions, and many hours of surgery, but he was ok. Maybe they even cleared up that pneumonia? He was actually glad to hear that the man had lived. Why take two lives when one could be saved?

They had his legs and wrists chained. And they walked in a group around him, almost like they didn't want him to escape. They didn't have to worry about that. He almost wanted to tell them that, but he kept his mouth shut. The reinforced glass doors opened and he got his first sight of the last place he would ever see. A plain metal table with restraints, and a machine displaying chemicals were the only furnishings in the room. He had read up on the chemicals, he knew what each one did. It was a slow, painless death. Something he welcomed.

They strapped him down to the table, tight enough that the straps hurt if he moved. They asked if he had any last words, and he shook his head. What else could he say? He thought about it for a few seconds. "I hope that man gets better." Everyone in the room looked at him, but no one said anything. There was nothing to be said. The anesthesiologist came in and set his IV up, and then there were no more procedures to go through, everything was said and done.

            The button was pushed, and an odd feeling came over him. It felt serene, and relaxing. He watched the last of the chemicals drain into his body. The tension seeped out of his muscles, and his breathing slowed. The light in the room got more intense, and he slowly shut his eyes. Mentally he thanked the man, whose name he never learned, for bringing him to this place. And then he fell into unconsciousness.