Winning in the Final Minute

The sound of the key in the lock was the sound of a last
moment. Each movement of the cylinder a series of images, contrasting
the image of future, so brief and devastatingly lost in the footsteps
that shuffled just behind the key. Sweat breaks out upon the brow and
then there is only sheltered breath waiting for the next thirty
minutes. Door swung open, balding jailer, anxious to be done with this
lethal chore for the evening gives a sympathetic gaze; ignored, and the
hands are placed in front, knowing the only lover to be found in these
last ticks of the clock will be cold steel and confining
motion.

Stepping into the aisle, there is the memory
of art class in high school, before there was ever a number stitched
across the breast and shoulder. Perspective in deepening shadows lies
ahead, with the door that has been stared upon for so many years,
lingering with forced innocence at the end. A perfect highway, wide at
the base, narrow at the end and the feet begin moving toward the
darkness there. A gentle push at the bent elbow gives the propulsion
needed to head toward eventuality and there is no need to force.
Resolution of the inevitable has finally been
recognized.

The feet shuffle, the heart beats slowly
and steadily within the chest and then there is only the sound of dual
breaths. The jailer and the doomed, walk in parallel yet opposite steps
to the shadow of the room at the end of the hall. Door opening, there
is the sound of hushed whispers from beyond the mirror that is more a
reflection of the frenzy beyond it unseen, than the plodding trudge
through the judicial system that has found this solution to a hideous
crime.

The prisoner steps to the table and a
minister asks if there are any words, naturally there are none, as this
is a terrible injustice. Laying back on the sterile, thin cot, there is
a sense of vacancy. Death is never this calm, this quiet, this
calculated, unless it is by the hand of the mortal gods who test
judgement with doctrine. Closing his eyes he waits as he is strapped to
the table and the sound of soft voices seems to take an eternity. If
only there would be a finish to this one way or another. The night
moves on and the eyes move to the clock. Four minutes and counting.
Three minutes and fifty- eight seconds. Three minutes and fifty-four
seconds. The buzz of the lights overhead strike a ominous pose as a
reminder that in three minutes, chemicals will end a vibrant life, and
yet the sound of those lights will welcome death in this room for many
days to come.

A technician in formal prison attire
walks to the side and rolls up the sleeve. Two minutes. Sweat that has
formed on the brow is now gone, replaced by a silent screaming within
the chest. There is no death deserved for this soul. The thought keeps
running through the mind. It was not me. His eyes close as he feels the
minutes weigh heavily upon his soul and his heart. Memories are a void
now. There is only sound and expectation. If only they could have
seen?.

The phone rings in a shrill sound from the
corner. Hushed voices speak for a brief moment and he hesitates to
imagine the significance. Then against all odds, there is the sound of
footsteps near his head and the straps are removed from his upper body.
His first though as he opens his startled eyes to the jailer is the
phrase, &;quot;Winning in the final minute?.&;quot;