Surge
by Sara Hignight
Sunlight came streaming into the cell that Sara had occupied for the last three years. The narrow five-by-30-inch window was her only connection to the divine outside world, even though she could barely see anything out of it. She had photos of her daughter Tess taped to the wall directly above where she lay her head every night. Tess was 10 years old now and visited Sara every Sunday with Sara’s mother. Tess was a mirror image of her mother, long, dark, wavy hair with ocean eyes.
Sara, even at 33, still had a youthful charm about her and was still exquisitely beautiful. The inmates were allowed paper to draw and write on, and they had become canvases for her artwork. Her drawings were skillfully crafted with a 10-pack of Crayola markers and were her treasures, as if they were Renoir masterpieces. Tulips in lavender were her favorite images to draw. They helped her escape, at least in her mind.
The day had arrived. Her execution was scheduled for 10:00 am sharp. The seconds ticked by like dripping molasses, defying gravity with an unwillingness to move any faster. Sara sat on her bed, which had become her private refuge from the concrete and steel she was surrounded by day after day. She neatly organized her personal items on her bed, lining up her comb, tube of toothpaste, toothbrush, and her markers into a perfect display. The generic orange jumpsuit that she had worn since her intake looked particularly clean today. She used to like orange, but after three years on death row, it only reminded her of her reality.
The familiar sound of the heavy steel door opening disrupted her thoughts. Two guards shuffled through the entrance into the dank hallway. It was silent except for the sound of water dripping from a pipe that had been leaking for eternity.
“Approaching F-2.”
The guard who seemed to be in charge reported their arrival at the unit over a handheld radio.
“F-2 confirmed,” the crackled voice uttered.
The other guard, a short woman with her auburn hair slicked back into a bun, knocked on Sara’s cell door.
“Blassingame—We’re ready for you. Leave all your belongings here.”
Sara hated when they called her by her last name only. It was so impersonal and cold, but what did she expect in a maximum-security prison? A handwritten invitation on stationery, with her full name in calligraphy? Oh, how did she miss the niceties of her former life?
With evenly paced steps, the guards escorted Sara to a section of the prison she had never seen before. She knew where she was going because all her appeals had been exhausted. She felt scared, yet strangely peaceful, knowing that she did all she could to protect her only child. Her stomach was growling, but it didn’t matter at this point. She had refused her last meal request.
They opened another heavy steel door and led her into the execution chamber with the electric chair. The white-walled room was empty and desolate, with an adjacent witness room for viewing the procedure through a window. None of Sara’s family or friends came to witness the execution, because Sara told them not to come. She knew how traumatizing it would be for her loved ones.
The air was laden with an intense emotional haze that day. Without delay, she was strapped into the wooden apparatus with her arms and legs bound with leather belts, and electrodes placed on her head and legs. A blindfold was placed over her somber aqua-green eyes. The guards left the room and secured the door behind them. She was alone in the darkness from the blindfold, and alone in the world she had tried so hard to make sense of. A voice came over the room speaker.
“Do you have any final words?” a man’s voice said.
Sara was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. She then spoke softly, “Die trying.”
Exactly one minute later, 2,500 volts of electricity surged into the electrodes. But during that one monumental minute, her mind drifted to a memory. But what’s more noteworthy are the things she didn’t remember.
She did not remember the official definition of the word assignment that Mrs. Gifford, her 7th-grade art teacher, had made the class memorize. Anything and everything pertaining to behavior and/or preparation for the class. She did not remember the day of her daughter’s birth or how beautiful she was. Or how long she had wanted a child, and the agony of waiting for it to happen. She did not remember the blood dripping from the corner of her brother’s mouth as he lay in the hospital bed when the ventilator was breathing for him, and the end had already come. She did not remember how his image was burned into her brain.
She didn’t remember stealing a Minnie Mouse notepad from a crowded outdoor vendor at Disney World when she was eleven. And how she didn’t feel one ounce of guilt for it. She didn’t remember hitchhiking from Newark to Times Square with her best friend Emma to see a Phish concert on the spur of the moment back in her early twenties.
Sara didn’t remember holding the Buck 120 hunting knife to her abusive boyfriend’s neck after she had found out. Found out, he had sexually abused Tess when she was seven. Tess had been vulnerable since her father died in a car wreck the year before the abuse started. Sara lamented not seeing signs or noticing any different behavior from Tess to indicate anything was wrong. The night she found out, Sara simply ambushed her boyfriend while he was sleeping in their apartment. She was stone-cold sober, and her rage was the only fuel she needed. She didn’t remember slicing his carotid artery until he bled to death, soaking the 500 thread count pillowcase and sheets, and thinking how much she loved those sheets. French violet and indigo flowers interwoven with emerald-green vines and leaves. They were ruined now.
What she did remember was that smoldering summer afternoon in the Mississippi delta with her best friend Emma. Both were twenty years old, beautiful, young, and had the world by the tail, as Sara’s dad used to say. Emma, with long, strawberry blonde locks, had met Sara when they were 16 years old after Sara moved to Rosedale, Mississippi. They had the same style—both loved to wear black, and traded clothes since they both wore size small. They became instant friends, sharing a love of adventure and learning from real experiences, not just from books.
On that particular day, it was around five in the afternoon, and they were exploring an abandoned wooden shack nestled between fields of soybeans and corn. The cicadas were chirping, louder then softer, louder then softer. The sounds were purely hypnotic, and the delta heat just intensified the moment. The shack was completely empty. It had four rooms, and you could see the sky through the worn places in the ceiling. They wondered who lived there before- were they happy? Was life full of sadness and stress? Did children grow up here? The walls seemed wise and knew the secrets of the past. Sara and Emma just stood there in the front room, listening to the cicadas, sweating in silence. A hot breeze blew through the windows where the glass had been gone for years. Then they walked to the old Taylor bridge and stopped to look at the creek below. Turtles were sunning themselves on flat rocks jutting out of the water. The turtles. What a fine day it was to see the turtles.
Sara Hignight is a Mississippi native with a deep love for the natural world. When she’s not writing, you’ll likely find her walking through the woods, identifying trees and plants along the way, or on her yoga mat, working on strength, mobility, and a clear mind. Writing is a newer passion for her, one she’s excited to keep growing for years to come.