They open the door of my cell and let me out to take my position in the center of the squad. There is no need for handcuffs. I won't run. There is nowhere to run anyway.
I am 25 years old. I had a wonderful family with my wife Mary and our two year old daughter Jane. Until I killed someone.
I can still feel the fear in Mary's look when I came to the kitchen with blood all over me and our sleeping daughter in my hands. How she moved away from me in panic and picked up her phone to call the police, surely worried sick about her only child.
It broke me when her hands, that were so gentle and loving before, took our daughter from me one final time. They were cold as ice.
I don't remember the feeling of killing somebody. A part of me wasn't there when I did it.
My grey, standard prison clothes are rippling in the sudden breeze while we leave the building. There is a stone path, on which we walk, that leads through the green grass in an arch to the other door of this area to our right. But my gaze is fixed on the giant oak tree that stands off to the left of the path in the center of the lawn.
One of the wards walking beside me asks:
"Why are you here?"
I can tell it is genuine intrest, so I try to get myself together and answer him.
"I killed someone.", I say, my voice more slim than ever. I can't look him in the eyes while saying the words.
"No, I mean, I get that, but why didn't you defend yourself in court?", he asks. "You could have lived."
That triggers memories from the court room where I saw Mary for the last time. She only looked at me once throughout the whole process.
I don't really know what to answer him so I think about it for a while. There is no rush. We slowly walk down the path, getting closer to the tree with every step.
"I deserve to die.", I say eventually.
It seems like this was the end of the conversation.
"You're gonna do it yourself.", the same guard let's me know.
This changes things. I have to do it myself.
In a little distance from the trunk, but still under the rustling leaves of the tree, sit a few people. I don't count how many, I don't know them.
We arrive and the guards talk to a few of the other people for a moment and the attention is not on me. I stand next to a girl who's already sitting in the grass and look down on her. She has brown hair and brown eyes and looks a little off. Someone else opposite of her asks how she does what she does.
She takes a brown hair tie, pulls it over her head to her throat and lets go of it in a fluent motion.
The hair tie vanished. I can't see it anymore.
The girl refuses to explain how this works.
"Oh, come on.", I say to her. I want to know it too. I look at her with an accusing face. I feel like I deserve to know. It could be the last thing I ever want to know. Not that I could use that knowledge in my last moments.
I suddenly become aware of the fact that everything I say now could be my last words. This makes me incredibly conscious of every single word that leaves my mouth.
The girl seems to make up her mind and starts telling me how the hair tie disappears, but after a few seconds we are interrupted by one of the guards who hands me a gun.
It is shiny and black and heavier than I thought. The guard tells me that I only have to pull the trigger.
I am frozen for a few seconds before I weigh the gun in my hand to get a feel for it. Then I let it sink and look around. Everyone has taken a seat in a square formation around me. I don't look at everyone even though it's less people than it looked like when they were standing.
I can't do this. Not like this. I want my death to have a dramatic touch. Not crazy, but not with 'Oh, come on' as last words.
I get an idea.
"Can I get a last wish?" I ask.
"As long as it doesn't interfere with your death it should be granted.", one of the officials replies.
"Can someone play 'Far Too Young to Die' by Panic! At The Disco?"
I look at the hair tie girl.
She pulls out her phone and looks up the song on YouTube.
She is just here as a random witness like some others and I'm glad that she doesn't look bothered or sad.
And then she pushes play and the song starts to play from her little phone speakers.
I sing along as it goes.
And as I sing I think about all the things I've done in my life.
I think about Mary.
I think about Jane.
And I start to cry.
And with the last words I raise the gun to my head and
"Die."
