[ WP ] It 's the execution of your husband 's murderer . You feel nothing .

I stare through the Plexiglas into the room, watching as they lead him in. No, not him, it. That thing isn ’ t human anymore. Maybe at one point it was, but no longer, not after what he did to my husband, to my family, to me. The deputies lead it to the center of the room and strap it in. It sees me and struggles, attempting to pull free. To do what, I ’ m not certain. 
 
 There ’ s silence on all sides, oppressive, heavy silence and all eyes on me. I can feel them. Are they expecting tears? Joy? Horror? I have none of those left. They ’ re all gone. I died a long time ago, after what happened. I at least have the mild satisfaction of that thing being put to death before being able to harm others. 
 
 They strap him in and down, a bucking animal. The priest comes in and asks it if it has any final words. There ’ s a pregnant silence, I watch as one of the lawyers leans forward, awaiting any sound from it. My back is ramrod straight, eyes simply focused ahead, through the glass on it. 
 
 “ Yeah. ” Another pause. “ I ’ ll see all ya ’ ll in hell. ” It laughs, distorted through the speakers with an echo of coming directly through from the other room. Someone huffs behind me, shifting and muttered curses shared. I simply stare straight at it. It ’ s unnerved, refusing to meet my gaze by this point. It must know how hollow I ’ ve become. 
 
 The priest reads the last rites, making a cross sign and it gives a noise, blowing off the small courtesy being given to it. I barely hear through the muted microphone something about not being Christian. That much has been obvious for a long time. They turn the machine on and after a second, it tenses, body going still and then relaxes. 
 
 There ’ s a flash of anger. My husband didn ’ t go so easy. I was tortured. Why does that thing get to die so easily when it caused agony for so many? There ’ s a long pause as the body twitches and continues to relax. The lights dim for a second, my face reflected in the glass sharply before it fades. I keep my eyes on the face that I know to be mine however, taking in the damaged nose, the acid burns along one side of the face and the scars layering the other. The hair is even still missing on the acid burned side. 
 
 I refocus my eyes to look at the dead thing on the table. My anger is already long gone. I am hollow, a shell of what I used to be. Missing my husband, the love of my life taken away from me by that thing. My terrified children are reminded of what happened every time they look at their mother ’ s face. 
 
 They remove the body from the room as people stir and begin to leave. The thing that murdered my husband, disfigured me, and scarred my children is dead. I feel nothing.
