I'm in a big city with millions of people within a few square miles of me. How then can I feel so desolate? I'm sitting in a small cell, the adrenaline still coursing through me, my ears still buzzing, my heart still disbelieving.
"Guilty of Murder in the First Degree."
I know the words but I still cannot grasp their meaning. How can I subscribe to a belief in the system when that same system is determined to kill me?
I hear a loud buzzer from somewhere deep within the Metropolitan Jail. I look up at the opaque glass window that is the only break in the white walled regularity of my cell. I cannot see out but I know some bored deputy is assigned to watch me. I saw the sign as they led me in shackles from the courtroom to this spot.
"Suicide Watch."
Does that mean they watch to see if I commit suicide or watch me wrap this bed sheet around my neck, tie it to the upper bunk, and lean forward, depriving the state of the satisfaction of killing me? Why would they abhor my suicide when they are planning to make me a victim of state-sponsored homicide?
I picture the deputy sheriffs sitting around on the other side of this window, eating the ham sandwiches their wives and husbands so thoughtfully packed that morning, and watching me try to kill myself. They would laugh and talk about last week's football scores and critique my suicide technique as I pulled the bed sheets from the thin mattress and tried to find a spot on the bunk where I could tie them off.
Would they arbitrarily intervene or for maximum enjoyment wait until I felt the pressure around my throat before rushing into the room to rectify the situation?
No! I will not constitute their object of their lust for blood sport. I close my eyes, lean back on the bunk, and contemplate the next eight-to-ten years waiting for the needle.
Comments