My Little Girl

  I wait on my bed for the men to finish shaving my head. I stare through the bars, The men try to make small talk, but I have nothing to say. Soon they will leave, and I will be left with my thoughts. A scream rises from somewhere down the hall. Laughter follows( and taunts from the guards). I sit on my bed for the next several hours daydreaming.

  Click; click as he walks the hall, awakening me from my dreams. He will be in front of my cell soon, what words will he have for me today? I hear him talk to other inmates. Finally  he reaches me. He stops to look at me, smiles and opens his mouth, just to close it and walk on. He probably thinks I'm scared; that I'm worried about tomorrow; that I'll cry all night. He's wrong, and no, I have no regrets: if I had to do it again, I'd still kill the man who stole my little girl-only this time I'd make him suffer more. Maybe, I'd pull his teeth one at a time. I laugh at that thought. The walls have become silent, because the halls know I've finally lost my mind.

  I look forward to tonight when I can dream of my little girl. She would have been five tomorrow. He stole so much from me, but tomorrow, will be my time to sleep for good. Today is the day I hear them coming: click, clack, click, clack (no other sound). I sit on my bed as the story of my life will sit on a shelf, hoping to be read; more than likely it will end in up in the trash, but who am I to care? My door opens slowly. I greet them at the door-no handcuffs today. The priest reads my last rights, and a bag is placed upon my head. I breathe hard at first, then smile and relax, soon my dear. I can hear the voices of the people behind the glass in conversations I'll never be in.



  I feel the bands tighten, as tears fill my eyes. I hear them count down and I embrace the electricity as it courses through my veins. I follow the light, and smile when I see Sara waiting for me with out-stretched arms. We run to meet each other, and then I hold her high above my head and laugh (for a different reason this time). The guards take my body from the chair, and they remove the bag from my head. They freeze as they look at my face. Their expressions alone raise one question: Why is he smiling?