Death Row

Your nails are bleeding again.

Funny, the things you notice. Little specks of dried blood around cuticles, for one. The rattling of the overhead vent. The stains on the linoleum floor. And of course, your pounding heart. Throbbing in your throat, beating against your chest, spiraling down into your wrists and head. Nearly drowning the world out.

Six months is a long time to wait for death. You suppose cancer patients or whatever have to do it, but for them it's never certain. For you, it was written in stone from the day you stepped into that courthouse. You never really stood a chance.

There are four guards, two in front and two behind. All built off the same assembly line, looks like. Same short hair, same stocky builds. Same pitiless eyes. Your priest is there too, of course, and you think about his job. Must suck, forcing confessions from criminals day after day. Being there to reassure them -of what?- as they draw their last breaths.

You slow as you near the room. The priest is talking again, but you can't hear him, can't hear anything but your own goddamned heart. Behind that door... a doctor, and a bench, and a tiny vial of poison. You think how unfair all of this is, how much more you should have done, could have done-- but then the door is opening and you step inside.