Pipeno Launch Contest

You have heard of death row and of suicide notes. Well, here comes a death note.

Forgive me, not because I have sinned, but because I have sinned and stayed alive. 

Death note of a convict on death row. His execution order has been passed. All he is waiting is for the day of execution to be announced. It seems mere days have passed since he murdered his best friend .It wasn’t his fault. He had to do it, it was either him or his friend and he chose the former. The memories of his dead friend haunt him day and night and that is what has forced him to write a death note-his rambling recollections of being on death row. It’s not as much of a confession, as it is a statement. In his otherwise normal life, he would have woken up by 7, got ready and taken the cab to work. At work, he was a quiet unassuming guy, dedicated to his work in his 4 by 4 size office, if that’s what you would call it. In his mind, it was an entirely different matter. Enough said, normal life was 10 years ago. Since then it has been a blur. Each day he gets up, with the idea of sleeping for the major part of the day, only to remember that he is on death row. You don't sleep on death row; you try to survive it, only to be executed.

This is what my life has become- my name is prisoner no. 1764. Prison life has ravaged my body; my already gaunt face has become skeletal, age is irrelevant when you are waiting for your execution. When I stare in the mirror, all I see is a faint reflection of me, I have become a beast. Trying to distance myself from the pitiful reality, and trying to hold onto the last vestiges of my soul, has left me stuck somewhere in limbo. Plagued by day by the memories of the dead and alone at night without their memories. Every now and then I wake up to reality to realise it’s not worth it. It’s been 10 years and counting in this hellhole and still no respite from it. The guards are a vicious bunch, ready to use their batons and tasers at the slightest sound of disgruntlement. The food consists of a loaf of bread, only a week old if you are lucky and some mush called gravy. The irony of it all is that we are all waiting here for death, but what we go through every day is worse than it. Visits are far and few in between, but those too, I have relinquished as I do not want to humiliate my near and dear ones, with my physical appearance furthering their pain. Here, as I sit writing this death note, I feel as if I am losing my grip on sanity. This is the only thing keeping me from becoming an empty shell. High walls are being formed in my mind, as I split apart from the real world. I am waiting for somebody to seek solace in, but I know that wait will not yield. Regretting the sins committed, leaving the victim’s family in pain. I realise, that I too have become a victim of my own doing; I have left my family in greater pain by being there yet not being there for them. Bile rises up in my throat, each time I think of my family. There are no tears from this emotionless creature that I have become. Bunched up here, with 50 odd other convicts, we are treated like wild animals. By the time their time comes to leave, they are reduced to raving animals, gladdened by the prospect of release from this purgatory even if it is forever. It’s been many years since I tasted the fresh air outside this place, the rays of the sun don’t reach this hell on earth. It’s built under the ground, its design fashioned from a WWII bunker. The bunker was designed to protect the people in it, here; the prison is designed to protect the people outside from us. The guards are not here to prevent our escape, they are here to ensure our suffering. All their names have been long lost in our memory. We only identify them from their voice. Thinking of all I left behind unearths a rage within me. Those missed birthdays, anniversaries, the days where I should have been there have left a gaping hole in my memory.

I cringe as I write these words, but it is true. My memories have faded into oblivion, yet, I try again to recall them with little luck. Some people believe the memories of our sins will haunt us and they do. There is remorse, we do regret, but we are the slaves of but our own fate. These vomit stained walls, the ravings of mad-men, the endless fear of not knowing whether you are going to wake up, are memories you wish you never got. The collective hatred of everybody makes us hate our decrepit society even more. The lucky few, who get a life line by their lawyers, are forever condemned to a life of being looked down upon. I strongly believe in karma, but I would never wish such a fate on even my worst enemy.

Books are my only friends- they teach me, taunt me, strengthen yet break me down in a moment. I wish that I never had the chance to write this note. The spirit in me has been broken long ago, now, what I seek comfort in, is the death note. A written piece of paper is all that is left for me to seek solace in. My death note is for my satisfaction alone. When I leave, it will probably be thrown away with my meagre belongings. It’s just there to give me some hope, to recall some past happy memory. It gives me the hope to survive for the electric chair. I thought of doing so much yet faltered when the opportunity arrived. Now, it’s the thought of those things which haunts me. My survival depends on whether my appeal reaches the highest court. If not, this note will be interred, along with the ruins of my life. I’m still waiting for my tryst with destiny, who knows, it may come sooner than later. Adieu to whoever has the misfortune of reading this, I hope you will not become prisoner number 1764.

LIVE AND LET LIVE

Signed- prisoner no. 1764