Last day

I never understood death. I would imagine it was because anybody who’s ever had a front row seat to the show isn’t really capable of sharing the ins and outs of the Finale. I’ve always been terrified of what I didn’t understand and I worked tooth and nail to know everything I could in fear of being caught with my proverbial pants down and not have an answer. I always had an answer. But now I don’t. And I’m petrified. Every avenue of thought I can conjure up just does 360s back into a supernova of anxiety that burns up any hope I have of grasping the concept. Which was never really a problem to be honest, because I had other ventures to occupy my mind with. But now, 4 walls is all I have. I guess I should find salvation in the fact that it’s only a matter of time before I close the curtain for good. Well not on my own accord but nonetheless the show is ending for me. “ Death by electric chair”. It was never as eerie sounding probably because it was never directed towards myself. Even though I’m in here for my own actions I don’t think one ever gets used to the idea of having their life ended. It’s like watching a movie where you already know the ending and no matter how much you plead to screen for it to not be so, they will always succumb to the fate that was written for them. I used to find beauty in that, the ability to hope in the midst of hopelessness made me feel alive, as ironic as it sounds. But now I’m the main character and the script has been set. Like it was etched in stone. I don’t have weeks or days or even hours, I have minutes. The four walls that have been my worst enemy and my bestfriend that I never thought I’d miss are all I long for. The walk down the brown specked white tile hallways that had been my highway to my confinement. The feel of the guard whom I’ve grown to love if only for the fact that he is my only connection to life, to an outside world. He doesn’t work on the 4th day of the week, never. Somewhere inside I think to myself that he’s doing this for me, for which even in our exponentially different life’s we’ve created a bond. He me guides down the hall, his hand gripping the part of my arm right under my shoulder but not as if to restrain me but to comfort me because he knows he’s leading me to the end of the line. We get to the door, and as if fate could be more cruel I have to wait for them to clear me to enter. I stare at my reflection in the window to get one last look at myself, to remember as I was not to would I was to become. The door opens and I am again surrounded by four walls and a bench that stretches from wall to wall. No corners. Which to me seems like insult to immense injury as if to say that even to the end they will control how I go. It’s a weird thing today I am asked if I need anything more so than all of my time in this place. The orderly who comes to shave my body has the disposition of a preschool teacher as she works so meticulously to make sure that she gets every strand with her plastic single blade razor. She smells like vanilla, not the worst thing to go with in your mind I suppose, as she leaves she thanks me for being so still as if i had a choice in the matter but i refuse to do anything but act with dignity in my final moments, it’s the only part of my life I have control over now. I can hear as the officer is setting up metal folding chairs for the witness room, it’s medieval honestly a witness room to watch someone be burned to death. For you to be there to smell the Odor of my burned skin as I am electrocuted to my own demise. And my skin curls and my bodily fluids are released like a floodgate to have me leave it all out the floor. Exposed in my entirety but i guess I shouldn’t worry because it won’t be my mess to clean up. As I am marched to the chair I remain stern faced, because of the whole dignity thing i mentioned before but inside it’s a barn fire of emotions but I keep them at bay. I’ll never give anybody that sort of satisfaction. As I sat down the smell of old burnt flesh and bodily fluid flooded my nostrils, overwhelming any trace of the vanilla scent I had been clinging to. The feel of the dried leather and the cold buckles, riddled with dried skin as they strap me into the chair only reinforces the gravity of the situation. Both wrists. First, right then left and like clock work again, both feet. Right then left, as if I were going to choose now to put up a last ditch effort to escape but they don’t know that I of all people, understand the importance of sticking to the script. I’m sure you’re wondering why this is the ending to my story because hopefully I don’t seem like the type to warrant this kind of grand exit, but then again none of us seem like the type until we are. But It’s not for you, the details of my story that is. My story is my own, just like my ending.