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
My best friend, my protector, my teacher, and my inspiration in anything I ever accomplished or failed at was my father. His name was Bob. If I had known I would only have him in my life for twenty-seven years, I would have crammed more time into each and every day. But none of us know exactly when we’re going to leave or how much time is allotted us.
It’s funny how that happens. You live life forward, but you learn from it backward…
Every Sunday when I was a kid my grandmother would get up at 5:00 a.m. to make Sunday dinner. We would all go to church, and before we left, dinner would be fixed and on the stove. And, she always made cornbread. She could make it all sorts of ways – jalapeno, cheese, pork – and she would bake it in all types of pans.
At this barber you are shaved, once again much like a sheep, and given a comb (which you won’t need for a few months). From there, you are escorted to a row (cells). After that, it’s a new experience every day. You are taken to medical where your needs are evaluated and you are given medication to keep you alive if deemed necessary.
We arrived after a ten hour bus ride. That’s when the fun began. That’s where dog eat dog starts. A good number of the inmates sent to French Robertson are, to sum it up in one word, predators. The guards were there for two reasons – to keep anyone from escaping and to keep the weaker inmates from being eaten. All the education in the world can’t help you. You either give up or you fight.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
While watching Charlotte play with her web in search for Wilbur
My dad took me to the family doctor, and he tested my urine and called the children’s hospital in Columbus, Ohio, to get me admitted. Once there, my blood tested at 901 – I was on the edge of a coma. I was in the ICU for a week before they moved me to a regular room, where my diabetic training commenced.
However, if mom discovered my transgressions, she’d beat me silly, yell, scream and ground me for weeks on end. I didn’t get caught often, but when I did, there was hell to pay. When I turned sixteen, she took me to a church counselor to see, “What the @?!#!,” was wrong with me.
This is Ernest Parker, proud father and grandfather. His warmth runs deeper than the smile. His friends speak of him fondly, and I recently had the privilege of reading a letter he wrote, in which he described a fellow inmate. Of his friend, he said, “His smile is like a beacon of light shining in the valley of despair.” While speaking so highly of his friend, Ernest Parker also described his home as the ‘valley of despair’. His home of nearly three decades has been a federal prison.