That autumn day was perhaps one of the hardest in my life. I returned home from work earlier than usual. He looked at himself in the mirror - pale as death. I washed and went to my room to sleep. An hour later, my seven-year-old daughter woke me up screaming, and it turned out that I was strangling myself with my own hands.
My daughter told me that the door to the room where I slept was ajar. At first she heard wheezing, and looking in, she saw me, lying on my back, trying to strangle myself with my hands. I got up and looked in the mirror, my neck was really bruised.
It was November 1984. Then I worked as a prosecutor, but far from simple. It was my job to read the death sentence to criminals and be present at its execution. Only a few people knew about these responsibilities, the spouse and daughter did not even know about it. This work demanded enormous mental and moral strength. I sent nonhumans to death by a court order, but in any case, taking a person's life is hard. Every living creature experiences terror at the threshold of the abyss. Criminals were no exception.
At that time, two dead people were sentenced to capital punishment. Karasev and Zolotov (surnames have been changed) broke into the apartments of lonely old people, killed them and took away everything of value. And what values could pensioners have in those days? Penny! For the sake of two or three hundred rubles and several gold jewelry, they killed those who were unable to fight back. Themis was merciless. The harsh sentence gave everyone a sense of satisfaction, and so did I. They appealed to the Supreme Court, but they did so most likely in order to delay the execution of the death sentence.
The day of the execution of the criminals did not go well since the morning In the morning I cut myself while shaving. Moreover, the cut was bleeding sweat all day long, I had to walk with a plaster. When I left the entrance, I saw that someone had punctured the car's wheel at night. We had to get there on our own, but the weather was still there - real November slush. On the street, crossing the carriageway, I stumbled on level ground, and it seemed to me then that I was pushed, but there was no one nearby. I came to work with a disgusting mood, all day long, some incomprehensible negative weight was pressing on my psyche.
The execution was scheduled for 2 pm. I arrived at the pre-trial detention center where the sentences were carried out a little earlier. As strange as it may sound, it somehow became easier for me in the prison building. Zolotov was to be shot first. They say that they barely pulled him out of the cell, he threw a tantrum, could not walk. The offender was brought into the room, put on my knees, and I began to read out a long sentence. The executioner shot the criminal in the back of the head, the doctor recorded death, and the body was taken to the adjoining room, where the official, wooden and unpainted coffin was already waiting.
Karasev, on the other hand, behaved with dignity. It was said that on the day of the execution he remained outwardly absolutely calm and energetic. He washed, brushed his teeth, put on clean linen, and ate breakfast with gusto. He went to execution with his head held high. As I read the sentence, not a single muscle flinched on the killer's face. Meanwhile, in the depths of my soul there was a feeling of anxiety, its cause I could not explain in any way. The executioner stood behind, raised his pistol, but when he fired, Karasev jerked his head and the bullet got stuck in the wooden paneling of the wall. I had to fire a second shot, this time the bullet hit the back of the head, and he fell to the floor. The doctor approached to record the death, but after a minute he raised his head, looked at the executioner and waved his head, they say, the sentenced person is alive. I had to make a third shot, only after that Karasev went to hell. I finally felt relieved. All the papers were drawn up, and I went home.
Three decades have passed since that day. I have been retired for a long time. Once I was invited to the anniversary of a former colleague. Among the guests was the doctor who recorded the death of those executed that day. We talked, and suddenly the doctor tells me that that day, the executioner - a young guy, returned home from work and hanged himself. And the doctor himself was taken to the hospital late at night by an ambulance, for some unknown reason he began to choke. If his wife wasn't around, he certainly would not have survived. Agree that when such a series of coincidences occurs, anyone will believe in mysticism.
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