Preface

 

“Death row is a nightmare…for an innocent man, it’s a life of mental torture that the human spirit is not equipped to survive.” – John Grisham, The Confession

 

Does the punishment fit the crime? Is the accused truly guilty or were they mistaken or framed? Who has the right to deal out the death penalty? How do we break the cycle of a corrupt system? All these questions form the essence of this story. I believe that when one is accused and sentenced to death, the mind imagines it happening again and again and again. You die again and again and again. You find yourself trapped between life and death. It’s a nightmare. It’s a reality. Does anyone ever deserve that? Do we deserve to issue that fate - this death penalty? Whatever answer you have, I hope that in reading this story, you think about these things.

 

I do warn you, this story is not for the faint of heart. It’s gruesome to make a point because the death penalty isn’t something to be downplayed. It kills both body and spirit. So read this story with caution and with an open mind.

 

The Death Penalty

 

I find myself trapped. It’s a peculiar situation and I’m trying not to panic though the short, shaky breaths my lungs are spitting out rapidly say otherwise. It’s hot in here – stifling and suffocating. The walls of this place throw my heat back at me and I don’t know whether the sweat dripping off me is from my fear or this invisible inferno I’ve created. Right now, the earth is sitting on my chest. I can’t move. The walls of this place have molded to my body – holding me down, keeping me in.

 

My eyes only see shades of black. I blink.

 

Open.

Close.

Open.

Close.

Open.

​

Nothing. The darkness doesn’t yield. I wonder, am I really opening my eyes, or do I just think I am?

 

Yes. That must be right. Maybe I’m not doing anything at all. Maybe I’m in that place between sleeping and waking. There’s no need to panic.

 

There’s no need to panic.

 

I’ll jerk out of bed. My hands will clutch the blankets to ground myself back to my reality. And I’ll sit there chest heaving with the strength of a marathon runner but I’ll calm down. And it’ll be morning and I’ll be covered in sweat but that’s okay because I’ll plan to take a shower anyway.

 

That sounds nice. Normal.

 

Except I don’t jerk out of bed. I don’t clutch those sweat stained blankets.

 

My chest still heaves though. And that makes me want to cry so I do. Tears pool in my eyes and carve down my face and I briefly think that I’ll drown before I suffocate. Which is faster? Which is better?

 

Why can’t I wake up?

 

My breath hitches and staccatos in an uncontrolled morse code. S.O.S. Pity I’m the only one who hears it.

 

I should pinch myself. That’s how people wake up, right? By giving themselves a fresh dose of pain. Except I’m already in pain with a chest full of lead and, now that I think about and catalog the list of ways my body has failed me, my head throbs alongside the persistent stress of my heart.

 

My mind’s damaged – I think. Cracked open because I’m missing pieces. I’m all blurred memories and panicked thoughts. They’re all spiraling together; I might as well be living in a void.

 

It’s terrifying how much I don’t know. Why I’m here. What here exactly is.

 

I know my name at least. Sam. S. a. m. Sa-am. Sa-um. It’s almost foreign rolling and bouncing around my pounding skull. It’s mine though. Sam brings up vague impressions of a life – of a room in disarray, scattered papers littering a desk. A dark brown stain burrowed into the white carpet. A half-full bottle of wine. The smell of lemons and ink. Two voices furiously overlapping each other. A phone ring--

 

--ing. A. phone. is. ringing.

 

I feel it buzzing against my thigh. A dull glow illuminates just enough for my squinting eyes to make out the faint outline of my leg.

 

I try to reach for it, but my hands are numb, no, crushed - heavy.

 

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. It’s mocking me. It’s driving the white-hot pain searing my skull even deeper.

 

Ring. Ring. Ring.

 

It cuts out. For a brief moment, I’m left once again with the hoarse drag of my ragged breathing and the stiff oppressive darkness.

 

But it starts up again – ring, ring – and I – ring, ring – fear – ring, ring, ring

 

Focus. I push the ringing and throbbing away till they’re nothing but distant echoes. I need to move. I think about my hand, about each finger, each bone, each muscle. In my mind, it moves, curls and bends and reaches and grabs. Alive. I resurrect my hand again and again until a tingling burns at the tips of my fingers. I focus on it - forcing the burning to travel up my arm, lighting nerves on fire as if my body is waking up after a long, deep sleep. My thumb twitches. I keep shaking it, back and forth, back and forth. My other fingers join in, encouraged no doubt by my thumb’s success. Each movement shoots lightning up my arm. I don’t stop.

 

Ring. Twitch. Ring. Twitch.

 

My hand moves – gracelessly and unreliably – but it moves. A deep relief steadies me – something is finally going right. If I can move, I can get myself out. I can finally figure out what’s going on. Answers and, hopefully, peace.

 

In sync with the next shrill ring, my hand jerks towards the phone. It’s nestled underneath my thigh and it takes a few fumbling tries to pull it out. But I do and it scrapes across the floor, its light growing brighter as it comes free.

 

I see my surroundings clearly for the first time when I flip it over and angle the screen towards my face. Though the rest of my body is regaining movement, I still can’t fully lift my head. I realize that I can’t lift it far anyways. I’m in a box of dark wood. A Coffin, my mind supplies. The top rests barely an inch from my face. My jagged breaths accelerate. I can’t seem to move my eyes from the dark wooden swirls coated in dust and dirt. There are deep, uneven gouges on the top. Speckled with blood. They almost look…familiar.

 

The longer I stare, the more my head pounds and the more I hear it. Incessant rings shift into the loud grating of abused fingernails fighting against wood. My hands throb with phantom pains. My breath quickens even more.

 

Ding.

 

A new sound joins the fray of my panic. My eyes break away from the wood and focus on the phone. Ding. There’re two text messages from an unknown number:

 

Answer.

Now. Sam.

 

The ringing picks up again, but I don’t – can’t – answer it right away. I feel paralyzed again yet completely aware of the wood scratching my skin, of the desperate gashes, of my pounding head, of the phone ringing, ringing, ringing.

 

Don’t answer, I think. But what other choice do I have? Distant scratching fills my head…no. That can’t be my only other option.

 

Ring. 911. I’ll call 911.

 

I wait. Each ring rattles my bones. They’re mad, I think, and they’ll be even madder when I ignore them.

 

I wait until the ringing stops before dialing 9. 1. 1. with shaky hands. Each number is an eternity that passes me by. I put the phone on speaker but instead of hearing a real voice, an automated message stabs my ears.

 

The number you’re trying to reach is not available.

 

Not available. NOT available.

 

Just what’s goin –

 

Ding. Another text message:

 

Answer, Sam. I won’t ask again.

 

The ringing starts up again and this time, I answer. At least, at least I’ll learn something, right?

 

“Hello?” My voice is hoarse and wispy. “Who is this?”

 

“Hello?” I try again. “I answered. Like you said…What do you want? Why are you doing this to me?”

 

My breathing spirals out of control even more when no answer comes. Part of me thinks the phone doesn’t even exist. That maybe I’m just imagining this – all of this. But why would I do this to myself? Why…

 

There’s a steady breath rushing from the phone. It’s so detached from my own shuddering. The breathing is followed by a steady voice – somehow apathetic and furious all at once.

 

“Where. Is. It?”

 

And for a moment everything stops – my breathing halts like my lungs were plugged with a cork; my heart ceases thundering; my body becomes paralyzed once again. Because I-

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where is what?”

 

Sigh. “Sam. Stop pretending. Tell me where it is.”

 

“I DON’T KNOW. I promise you whatever you think I know I don’t okay.”

 

“I see. You’re still not willing to remember. We’ll have to keep trying. Again.”

 

Again? “What do you mean again? What do you want?”

 

The phone clicks. Call Ended.

 

“Wait! Wait! I’m not the Sam you think I am. Please let me out. LETMEOUT!”

 

Redial. Redial. Redial. Nothing. I throw the phone to the foot of this god-forsaken coffin.

 

A chaotic thumping reaches my ears and I distantly register that it's from my own hands pounding on the wooden coffin. Dirt shakes down, spilling across my face, burning my eyes, coating my lips. I can feel it scratching my lungs. I can’t seem to get enough air. There’s too much dirt. I cough only to inhale more.

 

But I don’t – I can’t – stop hitting the wood. It’s bound to break eventually, right? And then, then I can claw my way past layers of dirt and run far away from this deathbed.

 

The wood holds firm. I start clawing at it. Scraping my fingernails into the ready-made grooves and making new ones. It doesn’t matter how thick this wood is, I’ll get past it. I have to.

 

There’s something about watching your fingernails dig into wood, watching the wood cut into the nail, driving little splinters into your skin. It chips away at you faster than you chip into it.

 

The sharp bite of pain doesn’t register. I can’t feel the ache of my bloodied fingers – the lightheadedness becomes my own numbing agent.

 

Time wears away. Slowly draining my strength. Breathing becomes less of a panic and more of a labor with each one feeling like a small victory. The desperate clawing steadily slows and…stops.

 

My body feels heavy; it’s an effort just laying here. I can’t think and I don’t want to feel. And soon my breaths are replaced by that damning question….

 

Where is it where is it where is it where is it whe--

 

My coffin moans as if mirroring my pain. I feel it snap against the small of my back and then I’m falling down. The ground gives away, but fire continues to fill my lungs. I hear it crackling and licking my skin. Have I traded one death for another? Some part of me is relieved but mostly I just scream.

 

And I’m not entirely sure when I finished falling through the earth, but I come back to myself staring at a blood red sky, scorched earth, and an endless line of rotting souls.

 

Hell. This is Hell. The thought drifts to the forefront of my mind as I stare at my own boiling skin.

 

A shove sends me stumbling towards the line. I glance behind me and flinch. A skeletal giant covered in flaking, rotting skin glares at me. There's a crack in its skull, splitting its face in half. With unexpected speed, the skeleton grabs my face, stabbing its sharp bone fingers through my skin, and tosses me into the line. The soul’s part around me – ignorant of anything but their own misery. I force myself to my feet and start walking – there’s more than one skeletal giant herding us along like cattle. I don’t fight back. No need to make things worse.

 

I don’t know how long we walked. Enough that I started to think that this was our punishment – this never-ending walk where the heat was so intense, I felt a bone deep cold. Hell is hot and cold and endless and -

 

At least I’m not alone. Misery loves company.

 

We come to an immense gateway. I can’t see what’s beyond it, which is good because I don’t really want to know. The line begins to split, dividing into five lanes. I’m pushed into the third. There’s a – what looks to be – a toll booth. A woman checks souls through.

 

She looks human. Glossy red lips. Pale skin. Perfectly curled hair. Nothing is out of place. I walk up to her. She looks down at me and, briefly, her eyes turn black. She smirks. I know that smirk.

 

"Ah. I see you’re back Sam. How was it this time? Finally crack?”

 

She rests her chin on her hand, leaning forward, a glint in her eyes. Her interest in me feels wrong.

 

“I’m not supposed to be here!”

 

“Hmph. That’s what they all say, sweetie.”

 

“I’ve done nothing wrong!”

 

“Everyone who’s here has done something wrong. Wronged someone.”

 

I rush forward, gripping the edge of the counter. I want to choke her, make her talk.

 

“Tell me what’s going on!”

 

She laughs. “Sam, darling, you already know what’s going on. Truth hurts love but there are worse fates.” She leans forward and pats my cheek, whispering, “You should know.”

 

“Whatever it is I’m supposed to know- supposed to say, I don’t remember. Believe me I don’t.”

 

“Don’t or won’t?”

 

“LETMEOUTOFHERE!”

 

“Why of course. I always let you out Sam. You just keep coming back.” She winks. “See you soon.”

 

I force myself to take a deep breath. “How-how many times have I done this exactly?”

 

She just smiles. And waves.

 

And I-

 

I find myself trapped.

I find myself trapped.

I find myself trapped.

 

I

Find

  Myself

Trapped