At the Stroke of Midnight

I know why I'm here, walking down this empty hall. The ceramic tile beneath my feet is dirty and I can just imagine the number of people who have walked this path before me. All headed for the same fate. I can hear the tap of the polished shoes worn by the two armed men behind me. I won't run. They both know that. They lead me towards a large metallic door. I need one of the guards to open it for me because it is awkward with the restricting handcuffs that I have been wearing since the day I got here. I know why I am here.

I remember the time when I once wore polished shoes like the guards. It seems like years ago, but in reality it has only been a few months. They were form fitting and they made me feel important. I was important, as CEOs of multi-million dollar companies usually are. I had the corner office, the lovely receptionist, and the beautiful bombshell of a wife that most men would die for. Now I have the corner cell, the tough guards who watch my every move, and my beautiful wife is taking a nice long vacation six feet under.

It's my fault she's dead, I killed her. I know it, the judge and jury knew it, everyone did. It's my fault. I know what I did was wrong. I betrayed her and worst of all, I betrayed myself. My soul is stained beyond repair. Lucifer himself will come to collect my soul tonight and bring it to the seventh level of Hell to burn. It's so saturated with evil that you could wring it out and you would realize that you were standing in a black ocean with no beginning and no end. Because that is exactly where I am. I'm sinking in a black, unforgiving ocean.

I can sit in my cell all day and say to myself, "If only," but I realize that it won't bring her back. If only I had gone straight home after work. If only I hadn't gone to the other woman's house that night. If only I didn't stay as late as I did. If only I had been as faithful and trustworthy to my wife as I had promised to be in my vows to her. If only she were here again. I know I killed her, and I'm sorry.

Walking into our house late that night will probably be my last memory before I am forced to fade away. And it should be. I should have to remind myself about the pain I forced on you. The door was unlocked so I thought that you were still awake. I remember I was going to playfully scold you for staying up late when I saw the overturned end table. The air smelled clear, but there was a musty tinge to it, which made my hair stand on end. Fighting my urge to run, I walked into our living room. I saw the perfect circular dots that trailed along our carpet. This was my horrific little trail for me to follow so that I could see what my philandering had done to you. I found you lying broken in our hallway, mere inches away from the phone. Your knee length skirt hiked up over your torso and your panties hastily tossed away from your body. Your mascara had run from your terrified tears and your arms reached out as if to say, "Help me." I know that I didn't pull the trigger, but I might as well have. If I had been there, you wouldn't have had to suffer like this. It is my fault.

I am guilty and I know it, which is why I deserve to die for what you went through. I know if I gave them my alibi I would have been let off, but I never revealed where I had been that night in court. It was like openly admitting that I was a terrible husband, and the fact that you know that now is enough to sentence me to death. At least, that's what I think.

I know why I'm now sitting in this chair with the leather straps they use to restrain me. The guards pull them tight over my wrists and forearms and I clench my fist as an immediate reaction. I look over and I see my bluish veins pulsing beneath the thin layer of skin covering them. My blood flows faster with my quickening heartbeats and I can actually see the slight pulse in the crease of my arm. I look out the Plexiglas and see my family, our family. My Mother and Sister are crying but my Father looks as stern as ever. I am still fairly young, but my life deserves to end for what I have done to you. My breath catches as I notice the syringe for the first time. It is lying on the table beside me with one of the guards watching over it, just in case I decide to grab it. He knows that I won't though. It's funny how something so small can make the biggest difference. The clear liquid flowing through it is my death sentence. It is also my opportunity to ask for your forgiveness.

I have regrets. I regret every night that I spent in bed with a woman who wasn't you. I regret that I wasn't there for you when you needed me the most. I regret that we didn't get the chance to start a family or grow old together. I have many regrets, but the one thing I do not regret was when I asked you to marry me. I hope that you don't regret that either.

I watch the large clock that is mounted on the wall adjacent to me. It reads 11:59 PM. I wonder how many people have had to stare at that clock. I'll never know. The second hand is now making its way along the face of that clock. Its last complete cycle before I need to go. The red second hand pulses forward towards the number twelve with subtle clicks. Seconds have never passed by so slowly for me before. I look over at my family once again and give them a small good-bye before staring right back at the clock again. I know that it has to hit the twelve, but something inside of me wants it to just stop. It inches closer and closer. I feel the alcohol swab that they use to clean my arm with before the injection. I'm not sure why they need to do this, I'm going to be dead anyway. Protocol I guess. Five seconds... Four... Three... Two... I hear the click of all three hands moving in unison towards the fatal twelve. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and let the vision of your smiling face take me away.............