Execution of a Ghost

The look on my mother's face. Of all the terrible things that have happened, that's the worst. Do you know what it feels like for the person that gave birth to you, raised you, kissed your boo-boos and celebrated your accomplishments to look at you like that? For the woman who loved you unconditionally for 23 years to look at you like you are a stranger. Worse than a stranger. A strange piece of filth clinging to her shoes. That your own mother could believe you hurt those little girls? As I sit here, I can't think of anything else.

The crime doesn't matter. Not really. Not to me. What they say I did has absolutely no impact on the situation I'm in. I'm going to die, by electric chair, and I'm innocent. I know, I know; most every prisoner says they're innocent. Hell, some probably even are. I know I am. The only crime I'm guilty of is being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That doesn't matter to me anymore either. During the trial I fought vehemently against the allegations. I was innocent God Damnit! Now though, as I sit in my cell waiting for the final walk, it doesn't matter. If a judge burst into my cell right now wearing nothing but a sparkly speedo and nipple tassels, and handed me a pardon granted by the Dalai Lama himself written on baby seal fur, my life would still be over. Because of my mom. That look doesn't ever go away. The second the judge banged his gavel and barked out, "guilty," my life was over.

What kind of life is there for a person convicted of a crime so heinous? I try to imagine sitting down to thanksgiving dinner. no one looks at me unless I speak directly to them. Even then its awkward and quick. "He was convicted," is on everyone's mind but never makes it to their lips. their smiles never quite reaching their eyes. No, once you've been convicted, there is no going back. No normal life.

It's funny, as I sit in this chair with my arms and legs strapped down, a conductive helmet strapped on my head; I thought my life would flash before my eyes. That's what always happens on the TV. Some sort of collage or montage. In subdued sepia tones I would see my first steps, my first words, my first day of school, my first kiss, the time we drove all night to get a look at the Aurora Borealis. None of that happened. No slideshow of my time here on earth. As my jailer grabbed the switch the only thing that passed before my eyes, burning into my retinas, was my mother's face. Tears slide down my cheeks. I died thirteen years ago when i was convicted. My body is just catching up.