[Jared]

Two Minutes/Death Row Diary
By Jared Humphries

Every pore in my body is grabbing for moisture and sympathy. Cold metal walls, unfeeling, detached, and heartless, cast their glare on me as if I have committed some sin against them. Every fiber, every filament that makes up these unfamiliar walls seems to steal the very air from my lungs, and the last remaining traces of optimism in my heart. These are the last two minutes of my life, and not even the walls can offer me their condolences. The walls, my only friends, my only protection from the prison of the world, cannot sympathize with me this time. All they can offer me is the disinfected yet stale odor of a hospital, the aridity of a wasteland, and separation from the world that placed me here.

But just as these barriers safeguard me from society, alas, there are only three. Set in a corroded iron door, a mere sheet of immaculate glass occupies the fourth and final side. This pristine but vile porthole is my only connection to the free world, the world that shackled me in this chair and left me to die. But to be free from these leather bonds would be an even more uncomfortable situation. Imprisonment is all I know. In an atmosphere of freedom I would be choked out, an alien to liberty. Fortunately, I am not trapped in the same giant cage as the lesser felons, but rather in a cell of my own. I am blessed in that I did not have to bear the afflictions of social life again, but only the sacred castigation of solitude. I am not an institutionalized man, but rather a confined man. And the life of an institutionalized man is one of apparitions and time. Over time, the illusion of what you perceive life to be changes. One second is filled with sheer contempt for a certain entity, and the next is filled with esteem. Walls. Those wretched things may be the only constant companions I’ve ever had.

But the metallic partitions I sit before at this moment are quite different than the ones that I long for now. Yes, these walls offer me security from civilization, but they cannot protect me from the gases that will soon choke me out. Even for a cold, callous, and contented prisoner as myself, the foreign walls of a gas chamber can be a scary thing. These strange walls and that transparent link between myself and the outside offer nothing but a safeguard for the God-forsaken spectators who come to watch me breathe my last, like casual bystanders morbidly scanning the sight of a brutal car crash to see the appalling extent of the accident.

The first witness, an overweight, staunch woman in a striped and perfectly pressed business suit has parked her mass of superiority in a chair on the far side of the room, as if her goodness surpasses that of her inferiors. If only she realized that she is just as equally sinister as the rest of the brood. The second witness is a boy not over 25, whose nervous yet contented expression likens him to a fox. He constantly edges closer to the first witness, whispers in a coy manner as if trying to establish some morose rapport in this less than fitting time, and generally disgusts me. In the center of the front row lounges a diehard with an amused scowl on his square face. Yes, this scoundrel is a sadistic fellow, here to enjoy the show. He talks to no one, and desires that no one talk to him. Rather, he prefers the company of his cigarettes to provide companionship in the minutes before my death. Such a ghastly habit. Four of the witnesses are huddled in the second row of seats, as if plotting to further my sentence beyond death. They cling like static to each other to provide each other with some strange security in this hostile environment. I believe I hear a laugh coming from the villains. It is as if they are conspiring against me, the blasted den of thieves. To steal the last few moments of sanity from a man destined to die is a grimly malicious atrocity. If only they realized that this is real; this is not some twisted cabaret for the amusement of the state. This is my last minute on Earth. And all these “witnesses to the execution” do is simply sit smugly behind the glass and wait for the spectacle to begin. Funny- I view them as the freaks behind the glass.

A single pallid yet intensely bright fluorescent light fixture on a gray backdrop serves as the lighting for this sickeningly sterile vault, as if a stormy sky had bled the sun dry of its last remaining color. This dismal display of light only accentuates the gloomy yet eager faces of the spectators, anticipating the final flip of the switch. I swear that humans must have darker souls than animals.

Nevertheless, there is one empty chair. Could it be that there is some hint of goodness left on this Earth? To think that one soul could not stand the thought of seeing me die is slightly reassuring to me now. But one glance at these greedy walls seems to steal my pathetic hints of optimism once again. For the first time in almost three decades, I wish to rid myself of walls.

Isn’t there always one chair, though? There is always one fiend who makes a promise to be there in one’s time of desperation, and there is always one person who breaks his promise to be there. Even in my darkest hour, I don’t see him. The one person I would want here, the one person to fill that chair, my last remaining tie to virtue, the one person who makes my life worth living: my brother. Young and innocent, with straw-colored hair, eyes as green as jade, and a gentle disposition, he is nearing the six-foot mark (so I’ve read in the letter). My brother is said to have my eyes, though I hope this is not the case. I pray every day that he will never turn out to resemble me in any way.

The orange robe of splendor that I wear bears my number. A number which is unique to me is the one thing that sets me apart from the rest of the fine men on the Row. Here we are all the same; all are guilty, all are hopeless, and all vainly believe in their innocence. This grand garment has guided me through 27 years of waiting. Waiting for this day. This day will be the last day I ever have to wear this accursed cotton jumpsuit. And there is only one minute left.

As I encounter the blank stares of the witnesses for the last time, I catch a glint of hope out of the corner of my eye. And as this glint turns around, I realize who the last spectator is. He is the occupant of the vacant chair, the occupant of the vacant space in my heart: my brother. He must be. Thankfully, his eyes are not green with the envy and mistrust that my eyes have acquired; my brother’s eyes are the images of a vast and tranquil sea preparing to suffer the violence of an autumn hurricane. And as the ocean of innocence in his eyes meets the corruption in mine, he is like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming automobile: terrified, yet entranced.

In one instant, these walls disappear. No more do these torturous walls persecute me. No more do the glares of the witnesses torment me. The spectators vanish, and the world melts away. All that is left is the distant yet longing gaze in the eyes of my brother, and the advent of peace in mine. The storm has seemingly been calmed by a more powerful peace. Seven seconds left. As the fumes begin to rise, I catch a glimpse of contentment for the first time in 27 years, and I can truly say that it is a beautiful thing.

[Scott]

Incidentally, a lot of famous rock stars died at 27, Hendrix, Morrison and Joplin among them.

I like it, although I would say one thing, and that is don't try and force elaborate sentences, just let it flow, you know what I mean?

Hey Scott! THanks for taking the time to read the entire thing.
Just to let you know, the guy didn't die at 27. He is quite old actually. That's just how long he's been on death row. So the mysterious magic number of the typical rockstar's lifespan doesn't apply here.
And as for the forced sentences, I see what you mean. Kind of... It was actually intentional. I was trying to make this guy out to be not your typical death row inmate, but an extraordinarily intelligent man that makes the reader wonder what the heck he's doing in the gas chamber (that's an elaborate sentence!). I am a big fan of irony. Heck, this guy who is on the Row for murder is carping the spectators, calling them sadistic animals, and even criticizing one of them for smoking!

[Scott]

I had an idea of that, but I didn't want to say in case it wasn't intentional, and you might've just kept it in anyway, without thinking about it. But never mind that, you meant it, which is cool.

Sorry, must've misread the two bits that mention time. Lol, dumb ole me.

[Angel Silver]

Captivating, simply captivating! Only one question, if his brother is only nearing the 6 ft. mark, and most stop growing after their teens/early 20's, and this man seems very old, how is he his brother? I was just curious, but I loved the attention to detail!

God bless,
Angel Silver

[maux]

i was just thinking the other day how deep it would be if an inmate who was walking towards his death would write down his feelings and observations. i mean, if you knew this was the last time (on earth) you would ever feel a cotton shirt on your skin, or concrete floors beneath your feet, or the last time you could just breath and hear yourself exhale... you would look at things in such a different way.

you did a wonderful job.

[Jared]

Originally posted by Angel Silver
Captivating, simply captivating! Only one question, if his brother is only nearing the 6 ft. mark, and most stop growing after their teens/early 20's, and this man seems very old, how is he his brother? I was just curious, but I loved the attention to detail!

God bless,
Angel Silver

I couldn't really tell you... Just something I overlooked...

Thank you for the positive comments! I really appreciate it. I've only written three serious stories in my lifetime; that one is the most normal and non-apocalyptic one yet. So it really encourages me to hear good things about my infant-staged storytelling ability.

[justshootit20]

thats alot better thani would ever be able to write
good job
pace
joey

[jesusfreak1234]

that poem was so.. so.. amazing!! I started cryin'. You have a true poetic heart!! Keep on writing poms. And do you know that it help you get your strongest feels out when you are in pain??