“Please, I am literally begging you,” I say, but the executioner only sighs and gives me a truly sorrowful look as he slides the IV into my arm.
The chaplain sits beside me. “Once he pushes the button, the drugs will be administered in quick succession.
Unconsciousness will occur in roughly thirty seconds, and death soon after that,” he explains, even though I have heard it so many times before already. “Any final words?”
“Just, again, I beg you not to do this,” I say.
The chaplain nods sadly, sorrowful that I do not face my executioner with a clean conscience.
That’s the thing, though. I haven’t murdered anyone. It’s been this way my entire life. I don’t know why, but whenever I would accidentally hurt myself, others near me would receive the wound.
I once got a paper cut in class that caused the three people around me to bleed from their fingers.
In high school, I was in a car accident, and even though my side of the car was hit, my girlfriend developed a broken leg.
I’m always very careful. I take care of myself, trying to stay in the very best of health. But when I was mugged by that trio and he shot me in the face, their faces exploded, not mine.
And when the cops came, they found me kneeling beside their bodies, trying to figure out what to do and stupidly holding their gun.
Around thirty seconds after the execution started, I see both the executioner and chaplain fall to the floor with a hard thump. “I begged you,” I repeat sadly.