An Execution-Journal 11/13/06

The warehouse was huge, cavernous. There were about six naked lightbulbs hanging by their chords from the roof, barely illuminating the three figures that stood facing each other in the middle of the floor.
"He must die." The first one stated. He was wearing a business suit with a skinny black tie wrapped around his neck. Although it was already very dim inside the building he wore pitch black, thick-framed sunglasses. He carried a leather briefcase in his left hand.
"Of course. He deserves it after what he did." The second man was wearing a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A black leather belt held up his tight-fitting blue jeans. He had long, wavy black hair that curled down his head and rested on his thin shoulders. His shirt and pants were stained in various places with paint, and he held a paintbrush in his left hand. The two men turned to the third person, a woman, expecting her to say something.
The middle-aged woman merely adjusted the white pearls that hung around her throat and flattened a crease in the white polka-dotted blue dress that reached her bare ankles. The two men went back to talking.
"Although we all agree that he must die, we should still determine it righteously. That is to say, we should still go about the process of justifying his execution." The man in the suit said.
"You're right." The painter said. "So, what did he do?"
"He killed her."
"Who?"
"You know who."
"Yes but for the sake of justification, we must state exactly who he killed."
"Why, there is no one here to hear it but us, and we already know."
"You are scared of speaking her name, aren't you?"
"What? That's ludicrous!" Then suddenly, the woman began to speak. Her voice was clear, crisp. It echoed through the warehouse as she spoke.
"You are both pathetic. You are afraid of speaking the name of your own lover, and you are so inept to kill a man that you must verbalize some sort of justification."
"I'm not afraid to speak her name! I just don't see the point!" the painter yelled. While he did so, the man in the suit stood completely still, shocked.
"Wait, what do you mean 'your lover'?
"I mean the woman he loves, what the hell do you think I mean?"
"You bastard, that was my wife!" The man in the suit screamed at the painter.
"Your wife? She was my wife!"
"What the hell are you talking about, you son of a bitch!" As the man in the suit spoke he ripped open his suitcase and yanked out the pistol that he had contained in it. One, two, three, four, five shots rang out, echoing in the depths of the warehouse. The painter fell to the floor, the paintbrush that he carried rolling out of his hands. It was stained red. With paint or blood, none would know.
As the man in the suit stood, poised, with his arm outstretched, holding the smoking gun, he slowly cocked his head toward the woman. She was crouched down, one hand over her head, the other fingering the white pearls around her throat. Sure that the gunfire was over, she stood, shaking.
"What was your wife's name?" Her voice quivered as she spoke. Right as the man spoke, lightning flashed outside and thunder roared as the first raindrops fell on the tin roof of the warehouse. His voice was lost in the noise. "The painter's wife was named Michelle, you fool."
The man in the suit was dumbstruck, he fell to his knees in utter awe.
"I killed him. I killed him for no reason." he slowly turned his head to the body laying inert on the floor. Once his gaze finally fell upon the lifeless corpse, he was suddenly animated. Leaping up, he grabbed the gun and pointed it at the lady. "And you saw it. You saw it all. I should kill you. I have to kill you." The woman staggered backwards, studdering.
"W-wait," she stammered, "I w-won't tell anyone. I p-promise. It's not my fault he's dead, you're the one who refused to say her name. If you had only s-said your wifes name then y-you both would have realized that th-they were two different people. It's not my fault." The mans eyes widened and his pupils dialated as this utter truth roared through his brain. It's all your fault. It's all your fault. The rain had increased to a deafening roar as it slammed against the tin roof. It's all your fault. It's all your fault. "NO!" he screamed. "IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!" The sound of the bullet flying out of the barrel of the gun and ripping through the lady's body was lost in a sudden deafening clash of thunder and lightning. When she fell her necklace broke, her pearls spilling out onto the cement floor and clattering about. The man in the suit took off his sunglasses, revealing bright pale blue eyes. He waited for the last pearl to stop rolling before shoving the gun back in his breifcase and trudging out into the rain.