I can still hear the zapping clearly in my head. The sound almost shook the stadium, but that might have been my own shaking from nervousness. I did not want to watch someone die today. I never wanted to watch someone die. People were building hype for it as if they wanted to see it, but everything was silent except for the fanfare that comes with every public execution. I didn’t dare look up to face anyone, but something tells me no one else did either. Even the people next to me, I saw their feet shifting awkwardly out of the corners of my eyes as I studied my own twitching feet on the concrete stand floor. I smelled the greasy stadium foods being sold, but seldom heard anyone take up the offer. The worst part, though, was yet to come. As the perpetrator was shoved out, I heard him being pushed by the authorities there, his cries for help, but everyone stayed in their seats. When I heard the police strap him into the shocking chair, I finally looked up out of morbid curiosity. He was looking at the crowd with an expression I’d never seen before. It was one of dread, anger, and disappointment all at once. I almost met his gaze but looked down once again. Then the main event started. It blasted my eardrums and I cupped the sides of my face with my hands to try and block it out, but two things still came through into my head: that godawful sound of someone dying, and the guilt that I had paid to watch it. I had to get up and leave, the screaming was starting to make me sick. As I ran out, I quickly looked around and it only hit me after I had left that most people’s expressions had been ones of wonder.