The Innocence Plea: Sorry, It's a Little Long (3.4 pgs.)

            “This is the trial of Sanger Rainsford. The charges consist of: manslaughter with a blunt object, kidnapping, and torture. The accused has pleaded innocent,” said the Judge, looking me with contempt in her small, dark eyes. I don’t know what I did to get here, for I am not a criminal, nor a cold-blooded murderer.

***

The duel between Zaroff and I had been a bloody one. Though he faired much worse, I’m afraid. While he lost his life, I merely relinquished my left eye to the savage fellow.  Our battle had gone on through the night, and where there once was a blanket of darkness, now hint of faint dawn peeked over the horizon. Even though my wounds hurt, my head ached, and I could still hear our swords clanging against each other’s, the dogs ate well; I lopped off morsel after morsel of the scoundrel’s flesh and fed each piece the starving beasts.

That night I fell into the silken covers; the white sheets stained with my opponent’s blood, and had my well-earned rest in the victor’s bed.

The next morning I awoke to an incessant pounding on the thick, wooden door, with something much heavier than a fist. With a final crash, resulting in the unmistakable sound of wood splintering, through the door came Whitney! I was about to jump up when, for the first time in broad daylight, I noticed the carnage around me: the scarlet puddles still oozing, even though it had mostly dried and now stuck in thick clumps of maroon scabs on the floor. My face, once fresh in the ocean spray, now marred with a large, bloody hole where my eye should have been. And in the corner, the thick pipe I used to deliver the final blow after both Zaroff and I had been disarmed of our ancient fencing swords, broken and stained with crimson gore. All of this paired with ripped, golden curtains, two shattered windows, and several pieces of furniture decimated to no more that slivers, must look awfully incriminating. But just as I opened my mouth to explain the sight before him, a police officer appeared from behind my old friend.

What happened next was pure coincidence. It took the officers one of four seconds to find the captives in the basement, all of which were “unworthy of the hunt” in Zaroff’s eyes. Their faces were scarred horribly, and all were blind from the chemical solution Ivan used so they wouldn’t be able to name him as their torturer in court. Smart for a man who’s deaf and dumb, I thought.

 But because of Ivan’s ingenuity, no matter how clever, this meant I am now the most likely suspect instead of the wounded victim.

As two uniformed guards take hold of my arms, I shout, “You don’t understand! There was a giant and a man with pointed teeth; they were monsters! They used these poor men for sport, for hunting, they killed dozens upon dozens in estimate! I assume that-,“ I was cut off when thick and heavy shackles were clasped around my flailing hands, I looked bewilderedly at the cop, then the cuffs, then the cop again before I figured out what was happening.

“Sir Sanger Rainsford, you are being arrested for the charges of: manslaughter with a blunt object, kidnapping, and torture. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law.”

***

So, here I am.

“Mr. Rainsford, would you kindly step forward,” said the judge, still glaring at me from behind her large, polished desk. I stood and walked toward the podium, my chains clanging with every step. I saw my opposing lawyer start to sauntered over- a white haired gentleman in a crisp black suit, the collar so strait and starched it could have cut through metal- and immediately I despised him. Something about that man made the hair on the back of my neck prickle, and brought on an onslaught of nauseous waves.

“So, Mr. Rainsford, can you tell us exactly what happened on the island through the dates of May 18^th to the 24^th of 1922?” he asks, getting strait to the point. This is my only chance, and I had to make the most of it, so for a minute, I stopped contemplating the mysterious lawyer.

“Of course. It all began on the boat with Whitney and I. We were heading off to Rio to hunt jaguar when we heard gunshots coming from a strange stretch of land called Ship Wreck Island. We hadn’t known it was General Zaroff picking off one of his choice targets at the time, so we ignored it. Whitney went below to get some sleep; I went to go stand by the railing. That’s when a stray rope knocked my father’s pipe from between my lips, and while bending forward to catch it, I fell. The next thing I knew, I was in the water, the boat already half a mile away, and quickly receding into the darkness. Suddenly, I heard another gunshot break the quiet of the balmy night. I swam toward it, knowing that a gunshot meant people, and people meant land.

“I made it to the beach. The next morning I searched for a trail, and found footprints- along with a spattering of blood across several blades of grass. I followed it all the way up to a chateau, very large and out of place in this wilderness. That was where I met General Zaroff, the head of the house, and Ivan, a huge man with a beard to his waist. They invited me in for a meal, and that’s when the General told me about his new “game”,” I stop, letting this information sink in. Everyone in the courtroom is sitting silently with shocked expressions on their faces, everyone except the attorney, who stood with a smile on his thick lips.

“Mr. Rainsford,” prompted the smirking man.

“Right. The game was hunting. He had been hunting his whole life, and now it was beginning to bore him. So, he decided he had to create another animal. One that had wits, could think, and be a challenge to his superior skills and talents. So I ask him what is was, and he avoids answering. Again I question him, but still the mystery beast remains anonymous. After the third time he says: I wanted the ideal animal to hunt. I inquire the attributes to the ideal quarry, and of course he replies with: It must have courage, cunning, and above all, be able to reason. But no animal can reason, I object. And to my shock, he says: My dear fellow, there is one that can.

“In that instant my life changed, for after that moment, I was no longer the hunter, but the hunted.”

“The next morning, Ivan handed me hunting clothes, a knife, and enough food for three days. The rules of the game were simple: if you could elude General Zaroff for three days, he would give you a safe passage off the island to a nearby town- as long as you promise not to speak of the events that transpired here. If he found you before the time was up… well, let’s just say he carried an automatic pistol and all you had was a knife.

“In that period of time, I constructed three traps: a Burmese tiger pit, the Malayan man catcher, and the Uganda knife trick- all failed to kill Zaroff, though I did manage to wound him once on one (the Malayan man catcher), kill his lead dog with the Burmese tiger pit, and cut down Ivan with the Uganda Knife trick. Then, while running from the enraged General and his pack of hunting dogs, I realized I was trapped on this island unless I felt I could swim for miles until I found land. But in my haste to escape, I jump over a cliff into the water, seeing it as my only getaway.

“That night I waited in his room and, in a fight, killed Zaroff,” I finish. Everyone looks at me expectantly, waiting for details or at least an explanation, but I have non. I can’t relive that horrible night again.

***

The verdict: I was innocent. The killings were in self-defense the court ruled, and I was free to go.

I walk out of my house, because for some reason the strange lawyer wanted to speak to me in private, one on one. And truthfully, I wanted to speak to him, too. We decided to meet in conference room 666 of his building, a strange pick I guess but it doesn’t really matter. It was a humble structure: brick, five-stories. But nice, the stairs didn’t creak, no cracks in the walls, or mice squeaking above you. He was there when I arrived. His long, white hair down instead of the low ponytail he wore it in at the trial. In lieu of a suit, he sported nice pants and a button-down shirt, and in his hands, was a honey-colored box.

“Mr. Rainsford, glad you could join me,” he said. His thick eyebrows rose in delight, but something about his smile was off. It looked forced. I shook his outstretched hand, and sat down across from him.

“So, let’s get down to business,” I say, wanting this to be over even before it started.

“Yes, let’s,” his red lips turned up on one side. “Mr. Rainsford, do you know what’s in this box?”

“I don’t believe I do,” I respond.

“Inside is a small, automatic pistol,” he says, lifting the lid. He told the truth, the gun’s metal shone, and on the handle of the gun was an inlay of pale brown ivory with the initials, “G.K.Z” engraved upon it.

My heart caught. It was the same gun the General had on the island down to the last detail. There was even still a spattering of blood across the barrel from his last hunt. It was the gun he meant to kill me with.

“Ah, so you’re familiar with this little number, eh?” the man says, seeing the horror on my stricken face. This time he really grinned- and I got a glimpse of white, pointed teeth.

“Who are you?” I choke on the words, and they are gravely, barely understandable.

“I am General Zaroff,” he says.

“That’s impossible, I killed General Zaroff on the island and fed him to his own dogs!” grief flickers on the man’s face, but only for a second. Anyone else would have missed it, anyone but me. If I can spot fear in the eyes of a tiger at a distance of fifty yards, then an older man sitting a mere three-feet away is a piece of cake.

“That is true. But I, am his father,” and with that, he picks up the gun so fast I didn’t have a chance dodge, he aims for my torso, and fires.

I fall backwards over the chair, and I can feel the pain spreading through my body like fire. I sense the bullet’s presence inside my abdomen, tearing through muscles and tendons, shredding my insides like paper. Another wave of agony sweeps through me. The torment is so fierce I let out a garbled scream, but choke as blood fills my mouth. It spills over, tainting my blue business shirt a dark purple. Unable to spit it out, I begin to gag on the salty liquid, my lungs begging for air. With one final series of convulses, I feel the life seeping out of me.

The last thought I have before I die is: “Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong.” Finally, the hunter has become the hunted.