A final hour for the condemned

Rain falls profusely. The child jumps to avoid the pools of water, following the flow. Approaching cautiously from the course. He pulls out a paper boat from his pocket. He puts him on the track and runs behind him. Even if they reached the edge of the sea, the boat drowned. The boy is afraid, and tired.

He stays in a narrow cell. The rain drops from the window wet the floor, and the smell of salt fills the place and fills the breath. Approaching the rails. Extends his sight as far as he can. The gulls hover around him, rarely landing on the edge of the window. A steamer makes its way in a dividing line between the sea and the sky. He takes out his hand and extends his face between the rusty bars. He was refreshed by cold water droplets and tasted.

He walks to the door. He knocks two ways. The guard looks at him with two eyes turned away. "I want paper and pencil." The guard passes them under the door. Throw the pen into the corner. Carefully carry the paper. Folded several folds, and become a boat. Back to the window. There, behind the sea, where cloud clouds obscured the peaks of the mountains, his grandfather taught him how to twist paper and turn it into shapes that he launched, and then pursued behind the fields and the sweet sources.

Wait wait his nerves. The mass prison was his torture room for a month. Whenever he heard the sound of the carrots as they cut down the lobby, he lived in a deadly fear, and he was obsessed with sleep deprivation, thinking that they had come to take him. Now, just meters away from death, it is almost normal.

The door lock moves. "This is some water if you want to do ablution." His life goes flash in front of his eyes. He regains his sins one by one: there is no way to purify them. Water leaking out of the pitcher is mixed with rainwater on the floor and surrounded by the feet. He feels cold through his shabby shoes, and with a fleck in his body.

There is an idea in his mind: What if Talis was right that water is the origin of existence? The universe will be infinite. This increases his refusal to cleanse, and drown in waiting. He is accused of planning and execution.

Reflecting on his past. Looking for a passing dream, no sound coming out of his memory. Death comes slow. He tries to predict what is going on in the other bank.

He opens the door again. A middle man enters a white jacket. Normal as a whole of whom he met in his life; no features in his face, as if blood does not apply within him. Quietly approaching him. He looks at his eyes and examines them, then tilts his head to check his ears, and no sound but his slow breath. He goes out without saying anything.

The prisoner returns to his unit and is accused of silence.

He pity himself. He thinks: "To what extent am I wrong?" His right eyelid trembles, and his eyes relax. No longer tolerable. Death is a short distance away.

The door opens again. Enter a short man, carrying the Koran. The theory of Thales and the question of water goes back to him. What if everyone now melted away and became a wave in the sea? The man begins reciting some verses, and is accused of ignoring and deception. Recovers the meanings of things. Some words affect him, and he sees himself as poor. He quickly changes his mind when he remembers the charges. The imam finishes his work and comes out saying, "God has given you permission." It has a modest smile on its features; at least there are those who feel sorry for it. He regains the taste of life: he is accused of joy.

Death approaches him, and he goes to the window. Clinging to the bars. This is the first time it takes him to escape. He wanted to go back where he came from. He wished his boat would be a little bigger to carry him there; then he would start again and be happy: he was accused of dreaming and freedom.

The soldiers cross the lobby. His heart turns into a blood pump that almost burns. Trying to break the bars. Get out his hands. He picks up some droplets, wipes his face: he is accused of conspiring with nature.

Enter the fire. They tie him well and walk calmly without resistance, and his kinship in his hand. There is no point in avoiding death: He is accused of submission.

He crosses the lobby for the last time and finds himself out. Here is the forum of death has been prepared to the best. Hanging platform. In front of her were members of the public calling for his death. To the right is another platform for senior officers. He sees the world now from a larger angle. He spent a moment of time not seeing what was going on except through a small square above the wall: he was accused of surprise.

He looks at all those eyes as if they are witnessing the death of a dead bee after the loss of her fork.

Climbing on the platform. He wraps a rough rough rope around his neck. He feels bitter and dry in his throat. Think little; water does not solve the problem. "I want some candy," he says. Everyone laughs at his surprise: he is accused of ridicule.

A guard comes to him
as he wants. His hand in his mouth at once. The taste of orange, apple and raspberry from the far ground fills his mouth. His lips are two colors of Luna Karsia with a sugar effect, and death becomes sweeter: he is accused of anomalies on the base.

Pull the chair from underneath it. Hanging like grapes. Blood is confined to his face. His limbs tremble as he tries to touch the tree. They kissed him, and his eyes were almost finished from their graves. The soul is broken. His lips are warm and reddish. Loosen muscles.

It is now devoid of sensations. The paper falls from his hand and has lost its shape. The bodyguards come down calmly and take the boat to the sea.

A child comes out of the public. The paper picks up. And he runs away to the sea: the condemned is accused of immortality.