WAITING (standard:drama, 719 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jul 27 2003	Views/Reads: 4350/3	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A tale of revenge.

Milton Darwin wept openly, his teardrops streaming down his prehistoric
face. The wheezing man had waited impatiently for this moment, for 
twenty long years. He shuffled lethargically towards the grey walls of 
the prison, awaiting the appearance of the man, who had inadvertently 
sentenced Milton to his own life sentence. 

The old man coughed loudly, flecks of blood soiling his handkerchief.
"One more day Lord, grant me one more day on earth," he croaked. 

“Charles Whittaker, you have callously and cold bloodedly, raped and
murdered an innocent woman and her twelve year old child. During this 
trial, you have shown no remorse, and are without doubt an evil man. I 
have no hesitation in sentencing you to the maximum punishment that I 
can possibly administer... You are fortunate that capital punishment 
has been abolished recently, for I would have gladly sent you to the 
hangman. Charles Whittaker, I sentence you to life imprisonment, 
without remission. Life for you will indeed mean life. Take him away." 
Every day, the judge's words came back to haunt Milton. The do-gooders 
had made a mockery of the judge's sentence, and today the murderer of 
his daughter and granddaughter would walk free. 

Milton screwed up his wrinkled eyes and peered skyward; the first drops
of rain refreshing his burning face. He reached into his pocket for his 
pills and struggled with the top, before he crammed three of the pink 
tablets into his dry mouth. The dying man was living on what adrenalin 
he could muster. According to the so-called specialists, he should have 
been dead a year ago, only Milton had a reason for clinging onto his 
pathetic, pain-riddled life. Ever since the newspapers had suggested 
that the brutal killer might be due for early release, Milton had 
resumed taking his medicine. 

The large grey steel gates opened, and Milton stepped back into the
shadow of a tree. He leant against it, unaware that his fingernails 
were embedded into the bark. 

The elderly man exited the prison, carrying a suitcase. There was no
mistaking him, his shoulders hunched and that bow legged stance. 

Milton felt the cold steel of his WWII revolver in his inside pocket;
grateful that he had secreted away three rounds with his souvenir. He 
waited until the prison warder departed before making his move, 
shuffling laboriously towards his foe. 

The short man who was wearing a flat cap struggled with his suitcase, as
he crossed the narrow road towards the bus stop. He leant against the 
bus stop and rolled a cigarette, ignorant of the approaching old 
soldier. 

"Whittaker!" choked Milton, staggering towards him, his revolver pointed
menacingly towards the murderer. 

"You've mistaken me for someone else, friend," uttered the petrified
man, his hands held up, as if to protect himself. 

"Plead all you want Whitaker. I've waited a long time for this moment." 

"No! Put that gun away and we can talk." 

Two loud cracks followed, the torso of the begging man a shade of
crimson. He looked down disbelieving at the gaping holes in his chest, 
before collapsing to the ground. 

Milton smiled, his twenty years of torment over. 

The metallic sound of the prison gates being opened was followed by
deafening shouts. The old man turned to see a prison warder running 
towards him. Without hesitation, Milton held the revolver against his 
own head and pulled the trigger, an ocean of blood seeping from his 
skull. 

The shocked prison warder was now standing over the bodies. He heard the
footsteps of someone joining him. 

"Who were they, Mr Fleming?" 

"Not sure who the shooter was, but the old geezer over there is Harold,
our janitor. Poor bastard was off to visit his daughter in Cornwall." 

They watched the approach of the bus, the curious passengers vying for a
view of the covered up bloodstained bodies. The prison warder and the 
old man shook hands. 

"Stay out of trouble eh, Charlie? I don't want to see your old butt in
here again." 

"You don't have to worry about me, Mr Fleming; I've had my fill of
prison life." 

The old convict took his seat on the bus and glanced one more time at
the man with the revolver; the man who had sparked a hit of recognition 
in him. He turned away and rolled his cigarette, looking forward to his 
new life. 


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