Yes, I killed a man.

  Yes, I killed a man.  Some believe I deserve this fate.  An eye for an eye, so to speak.  I killed a man, so why shouldn’t I be killed?  Others, some perfect strangers, are outside the prison walls right now fighting for my life, praying that the governor makes a last minute phone call to prevent the inevitable from taking place. 
 
  Praying.  There’s something I haven’t considered.  Would it help as they strap my arms in place to prevent me from floundering as they inject the deadly concoction into my blood?  Probably not.  Since the judge handed down my sentence, I have been remorseful.  It was an accident.  I don’t need to speak to an unearthly god for them to understand that I didn’t mean for it to happen when people here on earth don’t seem to understand that either.

         Does it matter how I killed him?  No.  Not as I look out against the glass and see family and friends of the victim, sitting there waiting for my fate to be completed.  I stay perfectly stoic as they tape the medical leads to my head and torso, to confirm the obvious once my fate is rendered.  Sitting there, I begin to ponder their thoughts.  Will they be relived once I pass?  Will it really bring them closure?  Probably not, as it will not bring their friend, their loved one, back to life.

         I stare out, not knowing what I should be emoting right now as the clock reads 11:57 pm.  Despite a room full of people and the fellow audience members, my mind is alert and hearing very acute.  Someone dropping a tool on a metal tray ricochets like the sound of a gunshot throughout the sanitary quarters of the execution room. 
As I look across the viewing gallery, I notice there isn’t a soul to support me there in my last moments of life.  No one other than the priest who visited me moments earlier, listening to my last official verbal words.  While his lips are moving, I stare into his eyes as they catch mine from between the glass partition.  He offers me the sign of the cross in response, closing the bible and holding it in the same hand.  He stares with me, undeterred by my cold glance into the great unknown.

  I feel the coolness of the cleansing pad against the crook of my arm as they sterilize the spot where the needle will invade my flesh and my soul.  I dare not make eye contact with the people preparing my fate – feeling as if they are just doing their job.  It’s not personal to them, this is what they do.  Some people bag groceries, others run businesses.  These people are in charge of making sure I die – humanely.

  I flinch as they insert the needle into my arm.  A pain that wracks my entire being.  The sting radiates from my arm, down to my fingers and up to my shoulders as I manage to not cry out in pain.  Not physical pain, mental pain.  I crook my head again towards the analog clock, with it’s second hand mocking my mere existence as it ticks away to midnight.  11:59.  One minute to go.

  A member of the audience leans forward, looking to get a better view.  Another gets out of her seat and approaches the glass, looking for final vindication in this moment.  I hear voices to my right, and while my urge is to look, my mind screams no.  Yes, I killed a man!  I’ve admitted this time and time again.  A jury found me guilty, a judge passed his sentence, what more do I need to do to end this pain and anguish that has consumed me?
 
  A loud bang shatters the silence in the room as the clock strikes midnight.  A hissing sound comes from the equipment to my right, beginning the process of the inevitable.  Through bleary eyes, I notice the standing woman.  She’s now banging on the window of my glass-enclosed cage, being embraced and consoled by other members of the viewing gallery.  Oddly enough, I understand her rage as I begin to feel short of breath.  Do I utter the words the audience might be looking for?  Would the words I’m sorry make her or any of those people feel any better?  Would that ease her rage as she watches my life come closer to an end?

  My mind becomes blurry, my vision hazed.  All motor functions seem to cease to exist.  The straps that keep me bound are tearing into my flesh, burning my skin with a vengeance.  I see the woman, now hysterically crying, drop down into a kneeling position surrendering to my reality and her completion.  This, as my mind and body becomes ravaged.  Looking to shake off whatever chemical has been injected into my body, my mind thrashes around, looking for freedom.  Physically, I focus on the clock as it painfully ticks away the last few moments of my life, and fades away into my subconscious.

         Yes, I killed a man. (word count: 846)