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Description
Fists clenched, knuckles turning paler and paler, fingernails making little halfmoons in the flesh of her palm.
It wasn't that she was nervous. Well, she was, so that probably was it. But this was her first death viewing.
Her friends had mentioned it before. They needed witnesses for lethal injections and other such things, and several people she knew had gone, and enjoyed it.
To her, that was hard to believe, but the rave reviews (as if it was some sort of wonderful movie) had made her curious enough to see, to try this out.
It was strange, though. She was even more nervous than the man inside there. Sweat was beading on her forehead, and she was bitin her lip hard enough to make it bleed, or so she'd say later when speaking of the event, though no such bleeding did occur.
The man inside was empty. His eyes were blue and unseeing, his fingers not clenched on the arm of the chair like her own, but relaxed, drumming on it, anticipating.
They were taping it for live television, taping the man who'd been convicted. Making an example for all the other sick fucks out there who wanted to kill, to torture, to maim.

Her stomach rolled as his family walked in. His mother (you could tell, they had the same eyes and lips) was crying softly, trying to be brave. His wife(?) was all out sobbing. The last time she'd cried like that.
There was no last time. It just didn't happen in this day and age.
And his child, his son, an eight year old who looked much more like his mother, was trying to be strong for the family.
She couldn't take that. Fuck the necessary witnesses, she thought, running out, pushing the cold, metal doors open. She ran into a white sterile bathroom and proceeded to heave the contents of her lunch (some spaghetti and meatballs, some garlic bread, a little red wine) into the metal toilet.

Description
Fists clenched, knuckles turning paler and paler, fingernails making little halfmoons in the flesh of her palm.
It wasn't that she was nervous. Well, she was, so that probably was it. But this was her first death viewing.
Her friends had mentioned it before. They needed witnesses for lethal injections and other such things, and several people she knew had gone, and enjoyed it.
To her, that was hard to believe, but the rave reviews (as if it was some sort of wonderful movie) had made her curious enough to see, to try this out.
It was strange, though. She was even more nervous than the man inside there. Sweat was beading on her forehead, and she was bitin her lip hard enough to make it bleed, or so she'd say later when speaking of the event, though no such bleeding did occur.
The man inside was empty. His eyes were blue and unseeing, his fingers not clenched on the arm of the chair like her own, but relaxed, drumming on it, anticipating.
They were taping it for live television, taping the man who'd been convicted. Making an example for all the other sick fucks out there who wanted to kill, to torture, to maim.

Her stomach rolled as his family walked in. His mother (you could tell, they had the same eyes and lips) was crying softly, trying to be brave. His wife(?) was all out sobbing. The last time she'd cried like that.
There was no last time. It just didn't happen in this day and age.
And his child, his son, an eight year old who looked much more like his mother, was trying to be strong for the family.
She couldn't take that. Fuck the necessary witnesses, she thought, running out, pushing the cold, metal doors open. She ran into a white sterile bathroom and proceeded to heave the contents of her lunch (some spaghetti and meatballs, some garlic bread, a little red wine) into the metal toilet.