The Big Swing

I have waited more than two years to see Edward Grayson hang by his neck until dead. Two summers, two autumns, two springs and two winters have passed since the murders of my wife and brother and still my pain is as fresh as any new wound. Now that the day is here, it brings all the emptiness of a dream come true for a man with no dreams.

Disappointment comes as well as satisfaction, even if for no other reason than I cannot look forward to it anymore. No longer can I count the hours and the minutes and the seconds until the breath is slowly and painfully sucked from the monster's mind and body. The special brand of vengeance that flourishes with time's passage makes one less because it is all. It spreads like a malignancy, poisoning every waking thought, dominating every action and reaction. What he did could never be undone, what was about to be done to him in return would be swift and irrevocable, but, in truth, of only the mildest comfort.

It is cold for early April. I find it odd that I can even think of that as I stand in the early morning mist and take my place as the only mourner among the watchers. Beneath the waiting scaffold I hold my breath and I watch the attendants inspect the drop boards. I hear someone behind me whisper that its purpose is to insure their thickness of three inches each and thereby a quick and easy drop. That makes me unspeakably sad. I want Edward Grayson to swing like a pendulum in unspeakable agony. I NEED him to suffer.