Come and Watch a Man Die! Page 4
said. This was more for the audience than for Vidmar. Even the lever he stood near was only for show; the actual electrocution would be carried out by a man pushing a button in another room. He knew to push the button at three o’clock, but he did not know what the button would do.
Vidmar said nothing, only stared ahead.
There was a scuffle in the foyer, muffled shouts, then Sigmund tore through the entrance of the gallery. “WAIT!” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. His coat was pulled about sideways. He tripped and nearly fell. “DON’T DO IT! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND, HE’S GOING TO ESCAPE FROM US! ONCE HE’S GONE, WE CAN’T CONTROL HIM!”
Audience members looked about, shouted, whispered, hissed. A line of guards ran behind Sigmund, unsure of how far they could go in detaining such a powerful person.
Sigmund drew near the stage and cried out, “HE FUCKING KNOWS WHAT HE’S DOING! WE HAVE TO BREAK HIM! DON’T YOU SEE, HE HASN’T GIVEN UP, HE MEANS TO GO TO A PLACE WHERE WE CAN’T FOLLOW!”
He stopped at the stage, his eyes burning into Vidmar’s own. Vidmar watched from above, cold and incurious, a god staring down at a little mountain goat slipping on a precipice. Sigmund pointed at the guard, then said, “You pull that lever and you’re a dead man. Your family, too.”
It was too late. A shrieking current was sent through Vidmar’s body, jolting his limbs, sending his teeth clattering like skeletons applauding. The guard, embarrassed and unsure of himself, awkwardly pulled down the showpiece lever. The audience was confused whether to watch Vidmar or Sigmund.
Sigmund’s eyes burned as Vidmar jerked against his small chair. His eyes rolled back. Sigmund smelled hot, tortured metal, then the stinging odor of burning hair. Vidmar bit his tongue off, squelching the sound of his teeth but sending ribbons of red playing along his naked chest. In utter despair Sigmund knew that this was a peak, transformative experience for both of them, one of ultimate victory, the other of unending defeat. Time collapsed and lost its feeble grip, and Sigmund knew that not only was Vidmar becoming godlike and beyond his grasp, but Vidmar was, in that endless moment, all gods, all great deaths, everything that had ever lived and pushed its life into bright and strange places where small creatures could not follow. In that moment Sigmund was every small and mean creature who had ever watched while others acted, and misunderstood, and felt fear and dread at the sight of something beyond himself. All the money and prestige in the world would never buy him greatness, or even the enjoyment of an experience outside of his own shabby means and dull-witted habit of categorizing experiences. Sigmund blinked in the light of Vidmar’s dancing shadow. Then the moment passed and Sigmund became only a shadow of himself.
The corpse on the stage laid still, smoking, veins of red meat visible between crusted slabs of charred skin. A few audience members clapped, then conversations resumed.
“Quite a show you put on,” said someone.
Sigmund turned slowly. It was the Old Man – a person of unimaginable status who could very well be the head of their brotherhood. No one knew for certain. Sigmund was unsure how to respond.
“More than a few people are… very angry with you, Sigmund,” said the Old Man. “They think you wanted to ruin the show.” The Old Man stared into and through Sigmund.
“Help me,” said Sigmund.
“I’ll do what I can, boy,” said the Old Man. “But it won’t be easy. You really fucked this one up.”
Sigmund decided that as soon as he had a spare moment, he would slit his throat. Perhaps he would do it in the restroom, or during the ride home. Did it matter? Even though he set his mind on suicide, he still found it awkward to be standing before the Old Man. He decided it would be best to go through the motions of his old life, for a few minutes, at least. “Please,” said Sigmund. “I didn’t mean to. Please, help me.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” said the Old Man, finally smiling. “We look after our own, now, don’t we?”
THE END.