In 500... (or less)

No One Will Mourn for Charlie

The iron door creaked as the sunlight flooded into the cell.

"Time to go, Charlie," Merrill said. 

"Is it that time already?" Charlie shuffled the papers on his small table, hurriedly trying to stack them neatly.

"May I take this?" he asked, holding up one of the papers to Merrill. "I intend to read it as my final statement."

Merrill scanned the text quickly. More gibberish. Par for the course for Charlie.

"And what do you hope to accomplish reading this?" he asked Charlie. "People already think you're off your rocker."

"Nonsense," Charlie chuckled. "They'll know once and for all that I saved them and what I did was just."

Merrill shook his head. There was no sense in arguing with Charlie. He was as nuts as they come.

"Come on, now," Merrill groused. "And bring your paper if it makes you happy."

Charlie shuffled along ahead of his guard, Merrill was the closest thing to a friend that he had in the world. Charlie hated his family, they'd tried to have him committed seven years ago. He showed them.

"So after I read it," Charlie said out of the blue as the pair walked along. "After I read it, put the hood on me. When I drop the paper, that will mean I'm ready for the end."

"Whatever you say, Charlie," Merrill replied. Even in his exasperation, Merrill felt a little sad. Charlie was so delusional it was almost charming and childlike. The foolishness of his visions of grandeur always generated a subdued chuckle from the guard, even when he pretended to be annoyed.

"You think they'll finally understand?" Charlie asked. "I mean, do you think they'll finally give me the credit I deserve?"

Merrill tried not to answer. He knew few would mourn the madman.

"Well," he said, pausing to carefully plan out his answer. He didn't want to lie to a condemned man.

"I can't rightly say, Charlie," Merrill said. "Some people will never understand you, you know?"

"I know," Charlie merrily chirped. His demeanor had changed in instant, going from desperately seeking acknowledgement and accolades to being totally aloof to the current circumstance.

They came to the courtyard, and Charlie spotted the crowd as the door opened to let him in. His adoring fans.

He danced happily to the gallows, frolicking and skipping over to the platform and up the steps.

The formalities commenced. Charlie waited impatiently for his turn, fidgeting and sighing heavily. Condemned for assassinating the President of the United States. 

At last, it was time for his last words.

Charlie addressed the crowd as if he had something terribly important and profound to say, waiting until the chatter had died down to read from his paper.

Once he was satisfied, he began reading a poem, a bad one, which he had written that morning. Merrill shook his head. This was so utterly Charlie.

The poem was over and the hood went over his head. Charlie waited for a moment, holding the paper tightly before finally letting it fall from his hand. Merrill watched it gracefully float to the ground, even as he heard the sound of the platform dropping.

At least Charles J. Guiteau was consistent until the end. Crazy as a loon.