[ WP ] A man on the death row realizes his fault and experiences guilt , for the first time on the night before his execution .

When I awoke this morning I felt oddly serene. I was thankful that I would never have to open my eyes in the morning to see the stark metal bars reminding me that I don ’ t deserve freedom. I am animal, I deserve a cage, nothing more. Though, I had never really believed that. I fought against the ruling as hard as I could. But legally I was a prisoner of the state, destined to live out the rest of my days behind bars and die there, when they decided it was my time to leave this world. 
 
 There ’ s something surreal about knowing the moment of your death. Most people go through their lives, knowing full well that they ’ ll die some day, but choosing not to dwell on that fact. Most of them live their lives to the fullest because they know one day death will come and when it does they want to look back without regret and only fond memories. Even if they grow old and sick, inevitably approaching death, they still never know the exact moment they ’ ll die. It ’ s different for me. 
 
 Tonight, shortly after midnight on November 30th, I will die. Life will slip from my physical form into whatever unknowable void that exists beyond this world. I still sometimes wish that I had been a religious man, especially knowing for eighteen years now that I would die behind these prison walls, but judging by the fact that I still hadn ’ t found God at this point I know I was never supposed to. God ain ’ t meant to save the souls of some men. 
 
 I realized today that I ’ d never truly accepted responsibility for what I ’ d done, because I had never realized the magnitude of my actions. I still believe I was a different man when I committed that crime; an angry, hateful young man. The conviction read “ Murder in the first degree ”, but until now they were only words and they didn ’ t hold any real meaning to me. 
 
 But it was this afternoon, after slipping on my sneakers for my last trip to the yard I felt like it finally meant something. A sage bug crawled from under my sole, dashing across the white linoleum floor when, without a thought, I reached down and pressed out its life with my thumb. It stuck to the swirl of my thumbprint as I lifted my hand away and I looked at it, frozen in death, with its legs sticking straight out like it was reaching for a last futile grasp at existence. I stared at that dead fucking bug on my finger for ten minutes before the guard came to unlock my cell to lead me out, and I wiped it carefully off my thumb onto my bed sheet. I kept replaying the image in my head all day, thinking about how alive it was, insignificant and useless, but living. It was living until, with a tiny crack, I snapped its outer shell and ended whatever force dwelled within it that gave it the life it had. Motivations. Needs. Hardly different from any other life. 
 
 As I ’ ve written this the sun has long been set out my little cell window and I know the last hour of my life is close. I feel like I should cry, but I can ’ t. I cried on the first night I was here. I cried on the holidays when I missed my loved ones. But as I ’ m closing in on the waning hours of this existence I only feel numb. So many years I ’ ve grown angry here, stewing in my cell knowing for certain that I didn ’ t deserve this fate, but now that I ’ ve reached the end I ’ m not so sure. I keep flashing back to the dead, colorless sage bug stuck to my thumb with outstretched legs. I ’ ve felt so sick since that moment that I couldn ’ t even eat my last meal. Someone who ’ s never taken a human life could never imagine it, but even as a man guilty of the crime I ’ ve found that I still can ’ t fathom that my own hands have done it. 
 
 At this moment, I feel anxious. I ’ m suddenly eager for the guards to come to my final holding cell and lead me, one on each arm, to the chamber where they ’ ll lay me on the table and strap down my limbs in worn leather belts. The straps will only be for the ceremony. I ’ m not going to fight it. If anything, I might sigh. When the syringe pricks my arm I ’ ll heave my last desperate breaths until I feel the final pounding throbs of my heart slow to a halt, and my eyes will close finally, as the paralyzing shadow of death overtakes my body and I ’ m freed forever from the horror of my own evil.
