Last night I dreamed I was dying.  Not from illness or old age – I was going to be executed by lethal injection.  It all happened so fast.  One moment I was living my miserable, yet consistent seventeen years of incarceration.  The next thing I knew, my number was up.

I kept telling myself it wouldn’t happen to me – that the mighty fist of God would swoop down and smote my enemies.  Then I remembered that my enemies had gods also – from my predicament it seemed evident whose god was winning.

I was kept isolated in a dusky room.  There were barred windows, a television set, and a steel cot to lay in my misery.  I paced in circles to unwind the hands of time.  I painted myself invisible with repentance.  I held intimate conversations with my family, though the walls said nothing in return.  I snapped in and out of trances, thinking, “Why haven’t we been called to class yet?”

Then my picture blasted onto the TV screen with the bold caption beneath:  KILLER TO BE EXECUTED TONIGHT, 2  A.M.   I studied the image and hardly recognized myself – my face looked worn with burden.  I slid into my flip-flops and searched for my headset, anxious to hear the report of a granted stay.  But it was too late.  Even a stay of execution would not quiet the mess that rattled in my head.

I made a decision – I was going to kill myself.  The circumstances I faced were so horrible and unreal that suicide seemed like the only remedy.  I combed the room for a weapon.  I felt desperate to die.  I noticed the bed sheets and was reminded of my friend E-Boogie, who’d hung himself.  I whispered an incantation, “I can do this,” over and over as I fumbled to tie the knots.

I could do it, couldn’t I?  It seemed paradoxical to be non-suicidal while contemplating killing yourself. Yet I couldn’t shake the notion that I deserved to decide my own fate.  Why should I give the state the satisfaction of terminating my life?  Why would I give death penalty supporters a cause to rally in victory?  These people were not loved ones of mine.  They hadn’t made sacrifices for me.  They’d never shed tears at night when I was late coming home or hugged me so tight that it felt electric.

The state hated me.  Its mass supporters of capital punishment hated me. They believed that life was wasted on me with absolutely no chance for redemption.  Well, I would show them.  No longer would they draw strength from my fears.  No longer would I be marked by their judgment.  They would not get to congregate over coffee and scones while my body convulsed from their poisons.  My life was not theirs to take – that duty was my own.

I knew that suicide was widely believed to be an unforgivable sin. Who was I kidding?  I’d been labeled a murderer by all those that mattered. There’d be no more tedious claims of innocence for doubters to discredit.  There’d be no salvation for people like me as long as there are people like them.  And there’d be no hope of a better tomorrow when my tomorrow was upon me today.

I spotted a beam that was high up on the ceiling and hoped it would suffice.  As I tied the sheets, I fashioned a noose to fit comfortably around my neck. Then I used a chair to hoist myself into my own death chamber.  I was furious, terrified, and yet somehow content – there was no other way.  I stepped off the ledge…

I was jarred awake in my cell on death row as my head swam with delirium.  I glanced around the room and choked back sadness as every item was a reminder of the possibilities to come.  I laid back, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.  I was convinced that it was all a dream.  But after having lived through the reality of executions past, the dream left me with a single question, “Was it?”

©Chanton