Deacon’s legs trembled as he was strapped into the leather-bound chair. His pupils shifted to the window and focused on the small gathering that sat outside the chamber.

“Have you anything to say?" asked Father Duncan

He stared back at the priest and shrugged his shoulders then returned his attention to the gathering. Their stolid faces regarded him with disdain. They wanted him to feel the pain that they experience every day. To suffer as they had suffered.

Father Duncan laid a sympathetic palm on his shoulder and recited a psalm.

A mask was placed over Deacon's head and the guards left the room.

Lights flashed, electricity sizzled and smoke filled the re-aging chamber then slowly dissipated.

“Incredible,” said one of the guards while he unbuckled Deacon. “One minute he's sixty, now he’s only twenty five, with plenty of time to complete his one hundred year jail sentence.”

Want to comment on this Flash Fiction? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Flash Fiction and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...