AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I want to tell her she’s wrong about that. Telling my story will change nothing. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing it for her. I’ve thought about what I might want to say to her. And mostly, I want to say I’m sorry. I want to let her know that it’s okay. I own up to my part in all of this. Unlike her, I wasn’t given much of a choice. So, I’m not without blame. Still, it’s high time she owns up to the part she played. I want to hear her say it. Words have power. In here, they’re the only power.
“People are very curious about you,” the producer tells me as they affix a mic to the underside of my collar. She’s holding a cup off coffee, I watch the steam eke out from the small slit in the lid. It makes me think of Americanos, and it’s funny how things seem to have a way of finding their way around, out, and through. The smell makes my stomach audibly growl. God, it’s been so long. She takes a sip and then swallows like it gives her life. “They all want to hear what you have to say.”
“They want to know what I’m doing with the money,” I reply with the tilt of my head. That’s what she thinks, too. I can see it in the whites of her eyes. And why wouldn’t she think that? Everything she does is for the money. Otherwise, why would she waste such a lovely day in a maximum security prison?
She laughs. “Yes, probably.” I don’t tell her that the money has nothing to do with it. After all, what good will money do me in here?
“Just relax and answer the questions truthfully,” she adds with a smile. “Shouldn’t take too long.” What reason do I have to lie? When you’re on death row, honesty isn’t a virtue people see when they look at you. They want to know if the things they say about me are true. They want to hear it from the horse’s mouth, even if they won’t believe it.
But what is truth? Whose truth do they want? Mine? Hers? Mostly, they want to hear that you’re remorseful.
Am I sorry? I’d like to think the answer would be yes—that if I’d known, I would have made different choices. But there isn’t room for maybes. It’s absolutes they seek. They want confirmation that the choice I made was the wrong one. It isn’t a martyr they want. Dying for my sins is not enough for them. They want to be able to rest their heads easily with the notion I know what I did was wrong. Modern society runs on the idea that I’m supposed to feel remorse.
But that’s the one thing I have left in my control: the way I feel. Everything else has been taken from me, so forgive me, but I think maybe I'll hold on to this one last thing.
On the other hand, if truth is what they’re seeking, the truth is yes, it was love. No matter the outcome, I loved him. And if one has to die…what greater cause is there than love?
That’s not to say I didn’t know the odds. I’m not a simpleton. I know there are approximately 6.5 billion people on the planet, and sure, I could have loved any one of them. I could have made different choices. But I didn’t.
The anchor starts to speak; we’re going live any moment. However, I’m not here. I’m somewhere else. It’s not the interviewer’s voice I hear. It’s someone else’s.
I’m picturing her face, and I’m wondering if I ever cross her mind. I guess that’s what we’re all seeking. To be remembered. This need alone makes me certain, if not hopeful, that my name has run through her mind, at least momentarily. Surely, you can’t just erase a person that easily, like chalk on a chalkboard, like they were nothing. It wasn’t nothing, what happened. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I’d go crazy. Perhaps that’s the unfairness of it all, was simply that her poker face was better. That’s why I’m in here while she’s out there.
They’re going to ask me about her. About how much I knew. Other things, too. I haven’t quite worked out what I’ll say. She knows what she’s done. To let everyone in on her trickery is unnecessary. But to say it wouldn’t give me a certain satisfaction to know she’s thinking of me would be a lie. I hope it hurts, too. I hope my name runs through her mind on a path of destruction like nothing she’s seen. I hope the memories strike with a jagged edge. I hope they cut deep. For she deserves nothing less than searing, burning, white-hot pain.
They’re counting down now. Here goes nothing. This is where they make an example out of me. Look, look at what can happen. Can you imagine?
It’s pretty amazing if you think about it—and I have plenty of time for that—how they say one bad choice leads to another bad choice and then onto another, until eventually you’re sitting, waiting to die, and wondering whether it’ll come soon. Sometimes, I think about what it will be like when it does. Will she come? Will she say goodbye? Will she apologize? Perhaps that is the worst of it all. The punishment isn’t that they’re going to kill me. But that I have to wait to find out.
