Elected (The Elected Series Book 1) Read Free Page A

technology enabled years ago when we outlaw technology now.
    I swallow hard when I see the prisoner eventually slump back onto his cot in defeat.
    “How long until he drinks it?”
    “Not long. They’ll bring it in now that he’s settled down.”
    A burly guard enters the prisoner’s space and hands him a crystal glass containing approximately one hundred milligrams of clear liquid. It would seem like the prisoner was just given a cup of water if I didn’t know better.
    I’m reminded of the many chemistry and biology sessions with Tomlin where he taught me again and again what kind of plants survived the global eco-crisis, which ones we could eat, which ones leached in atomic radiation, and which one we now use for capital punishment. The prisoner’s cup holds hemlock.
    Withstanding the high and low temperatures brought on by global warming, the hemlock plant hung on, its lacy white flowers torturously beautiful, but deadly if eaten in large quantities.
    The prisoner lifts the cup of hemlock to his nose, breathing in lightly. The toxic component, alkaloid coniine, will give off a small scent of anise, the same kind of smell one encounters biting into black licorice. It was my favorite treat as a child. I can imagine what it smells like even though it’s impossible to detect the fragrance through the glass.
    The man holds the cup out in front of himself, determining his next course of action. I watch him closely, as Apa told me to keep my eyes open for the duration. It’s only right to give the accused the dignity of someone witnessing his final moments. But I turn to Apa anyway, fright and curiosity getting the better of me.
    “What if he refuses to drink it?”
    “He won’t.” My father’s eyes never leave the man’s face even as he answers my question. “It is honorable to drink the hemlock oneself instead of it being forced into his person by the guards.”
    I’m horrified by the thought of having to watch the guards perform the execution themselves. In our country, capital punishment is carried out only through assisted suicide. One person killing another is against the law. In fact, I’ve never heard of it happening. Murder is obsolete, but it’s considered honorable for people to accept government-controlled suicide if an Accord is violated.
    I pray silently that during this, my first execution, I won’t have to witness a killing. I pray the prisoner will drink down the liquid by himself. As I watch him studying the crystal, I secretly wish the process would go faster, that he would just tilt his head back and pour down the hemlock as quickly as possible. But then I chide myself on being so callous. This execution is not meant to be easy for me to watch. These are the man’s final moments, and if I cannot offer him anything else, I can at least grant my attention and time.
    After what seems like an eternity, my father squeezes my hand and says, “It is happening now. He is starting.”
    The prisoner rocks back and forth on the heels of his feet, preparing himself mentally for the ordeal ahead. I can only imagine what resolve it must take to drink the liquid and know it will be the last thing you do.
    The prisoner looks to us one more time through the armor glass, gives a nod, and then lifts the chalice to his lips, taking a large gulp. His eyes are tightly closed. Immediately, the glass shatters upon the ground as paralysis takes over. I know through study with Tomlin—the respiratory function is at first depressed and ultimately ceases altogether. The prisoner’s death will result from asphyxia. However, the man’s mind will remain unaffected to the end, allowing him one more fleeting thought of his loved ones and the life he’s lived.
    The man falls to the floor. I can see him trying to clutch his stomach, but his arm won’t lift. Vomit erupts from his mouth, puddling next to him on the ground. Saliva bubbles around his lips, mixing with the vomit in a toxic pool. He gasps deeply, trying to