My rendezvous with Death

Of course I knew it would happen – it was only to be expected. Even though the verdict had been passed a long time ago, I had this irrational thought that perhaps it would never come to that. You know something is inevitable, but you try to push it out of your mind.

It's very difficult to do so here on death row, because you can't really lie to yourself. The monotony of the days – getting up, having breakfast, doing the rounds – creates a false sense of normality that calms your nerves. At least until you're handed the paper on which it's written in black and white: 'Execution on such-and-such a day next month.'

I haven't been here long and had hoped that my rendezvous with the abyss would take a little longer. I didn't want to come here – who would? But that's just how it turned out. I couldn't fight it, it must be my fate. Perhaps it doesn't sound normal for a man of my age to talk about such things or be slightly obsessed with them. But everyone understands that special circumstances give rise to special thoughts.

The others here have also been touched by kisses in the darkness; no one here is quite the person they once were. Many of the older ones put on a tough front, playing the part of the hard-nosed bloke who's too tough to be affected by anything – not even death. But no one can see the dreams they have, that remains their secret. Perhaps they dream of this chair, of their final walk, reliving it over and over again at night. Maybe they also hear the screams that remain behind the doors of the execution chamber, which never reach the outside world. Who knows, and who even wants to know?

I sometimes wonder if there's anyone here who isn't afraid. I bet even the chaplain is terrified when he walks down the corridor. That pale man seems vague, as if he were an extra. No matter how friendly he seems when he greets you and nods, he looks like a ghost from another world. I can't make head nor tail of it, but people often want him around.

They call me 'Babyface' here because I'm the youngest. Somehow, everyone treats me with kid gloves, but I don't actually want that. I made the decision to come here myself, or at least that's what I tell myself. It's going to be bloody hard when I look at the tinware, glance at the window, and scan the small room so that I don't have to look up. Over the last few days, I've seen something like pity in the eyes that are staring at me mercilessly, and it's completely thrown me off balance.

I drop the blankets I'm holding, and the man says: 'It's all right, Babyface. Don't worry about it.' He laughs and smirks a little, but I know he means no harm. He's not usually that friendly. Friendliness isn't common on death row. If he even has a soft moment when dealing with me, it shows just how badly I'm feeling.

Now the bloody moment has finally arrived. I didn't sleep at all last night, and I had some terrible dreams that I can't remember. I can still feel the fear, though. It stays with me and paralyses me in a nasty way. It's as if I've had too much to drink, yet my senses are hyper-alert. I look into his eyes one last time and feel ashamed, though I don't understand why. They come to fetch us, and I go through the motions like a robot. The man grins strangely, just at the corners of his mouth. He's as pale as a sheet, but I reckon I don't look much different. This is confirmed when the head of the guard looks at me scrutinisingly before giving the order to move on.

No more than three minutes pass before the steel door appears before us. The door that will swallow one of our group. He will not pass through it a second time. I will, but will I be the same person? Can one remain the same person after coming out the other side? I feel sick, but just before I go through last, I feel my superior's hand on my shoulder.

'You'll manage, lad. It's your first execution, I know. You'll get used to it.' The old man says this in a strangely hollow way. I look into his eyes and know he's lying. Then it's time for me to go for my rendezvous with death. The first of many.

© 'My rendezvous with death. The fear of execution': a short story by Ilona E. Schwartz (translated by Izabel Comati), 06/2026. Image credit: Imaginary scene, CC0 (Public Domain Licence).