The Final Hours

At 4:30 pm, thirty minutes after the prison's scheduled visiting hours ended, Jack Green was summoned to the visiting area. If this had been any other day, he would have been surprised by the call. Still, given that he was scheduled for execution the next morning by lethal injection, it was a usual exception for inmates who were facing their creator the next day. Reluctantly, he left his confined cell, escorted by two guards, and trudged toward the visitation area. Their footsteps echoed along the cold, gray walls of the prison corridor, a rhythmic reminder of the harsh environment within. Having spent ten years on death row, Jack had made peace with his impending execution; it no longer provoked fear. Over time, the threat of death had dulled into a distant, almost irrelevant thought. To him, death was no more significant than enduring daily routines in his bleak, monotonous cell, with mediocre food and harsh treatment from guards and inmates. His mind had gradually shifted into a steady acceptance, making the death seem less like an ending and more like an escape from a meaningless, monotonous life.

In the visiting area, Steve Andrews, who had been Jack's lawyer for the past five years, stood quietly with a composed yet weary demeanor. He wore a wrinkled suit that had likely been on him all day, and he had a day's worth of stubble, giving him a tired, worn appearance that reflected the stress of his work and the emotional toll of the case. As Jack looked at him, he instantly sensed that the news Steve carried was likely not good. Despite the gravity of the situation, Jack felt a sense of appreciation for Steve, knowing he had done all he could to prevent his execution during these challenging times.

After they sat on the other side of the visitation booth, separated by plexiglass. Steve asked, "How are you doing, Jack?"

"Fine, I guess!"

After a long pause, arranging his mind, Steve said, "Unfortunately, your clemency request to the federal court was rejected by a federal judge this afternoon."

"I could guess," Jack replied indifferently.

"As soon as I received the federal court's ruling, I submitted a clemency request at the governor's office. The governor is the only person who can grant clemency at this point. The clerk there promised to ensure the request reached the governor by tonight, as time is running out for your..." Steve went silent, leaving his sentence unfinished. He refrained from using the word 'execution'.

Jack listened quietly, his face showing little emotion, but Steve could feel the heaviness of his silence. "I understand. Thank you," Jack finally said softly, his voice steady but weary.

"I will be at the governor's office early in the morning, awaiting any updates," Steve added, trying to offer some small comfort amid the uncertainty.

Jack nodded in silent acknowledgment, showing no emotion.

"If you need something for tonight, I might ask the guards to bring it to you," Steve offered.

Jack hesitated for a moment, then requested, "Can I have a notebook, a pen, and a flask of black coffee?"

"Do you plan to skip sleeping?" Steve joked, but he immediately regretted the bluntness and apologized, "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"Not a problem," Jack replied softly.

Steve nodded and said, "I'll ask the guards to bring you a notebook, a pen, and coffee. Is there anything else you might need?"

After a brief pause, he added, "An envelope, too."

"Sure," Jack responded, making a mental note to include it.

Back in his cell, Jack picked up a pen and began his letter with, 'Dear Mom.' He then paused, lost in his memories. His hand trembled slightly as he struggled to find the right words, feeling the weight of his emotions. Frustrated, he tore the page from the notebook, crumpled it in his fist, and threw it on the cold, hard floor. Then he took a deep breath, steadied himself, and wrote, 'Hello, Mother.' He then paused briefly to gather his thoughts before continuing to write.

By the time you receive this letter, I will no longer be in this world. My execution is set for 8:00 am tomorrow, and it's almost 8:00 pm now—twelve hours before my death. As I sit here in the silence of this last evening, I am filled with a mix of reflection, regret, and a strange sense of peace. I'm not feeling sorry for myself because I've done many wrong things, and I believe I deserve nothing better than this. But when I look back on my life, I see you played a significant role in shaping the person I've become. You might wonder why I'm blaming you. Let me take a moment to remember the times when I was still innocent, untouched by the complexities of the world, and in need of your guidance, telling me what was right and what was wrong, something you failed to deliver.

Do you remember those early days in kindergarten when I punched my classmate and forcefully took his food, then ate it without a second thought? I was just a child then, so young and unaware of the consequences of my actions. Despite this, I was praised at home for being a strong boy, for standing up for myself, and for asserting my dominance.

Do you remember when I was in elementary school? Each time I stole money from my classmates, instead of scolding me, you took me shopping to buy things I wanted with the stolen money.

Do you remember when I got caught stealing at school? You came and defended me, claiming that I was a good kid and that it was just a one-time mistake.

Do you remember when I stole my first bicycle? You helped me hide it.

Do you remember when I stole a neighbor's jewelry? You took it to a jewelry shop far from home and cashed it.

Do you remember when I was arrested for burglary and sent to juvenile detention? You visited me almost every day and even smuggled me cannabis to sell in prison.

Do you remember when I stole my first car? You hid it in a friend's yard for a month before selling it to a wrecker. And so many other moments, I don't have time or enough paper to write them down.

All those praises planted a seed in my subconscious that strength and dominance were the qualities most worth cultivating. As the years went by, that small seed blossomed into a darker, more twisted version of myself, feeding on arrogance, aggression, and desire for control.

If you had been a responsible mother, reprimanding me for my wrongdoings, I wouldn't have become a bully, thief, burglar, and eventually a murderer, and I wouldn't be waiting on death row for the past ten years. If you had been a good mother, I could have been an engineer, a doctor, an artist, or even a tradesman—a valuable part of society, not a parasite needing to be squashed.

I wish the justice system would punish not only criminals like me but also those who made us into criminals, like you, mother.

I hope you find happiness in causing your son's early death. I wish I didn't have you as my mother.

Goodbye, see you in hell, mother.

Jack carefully folded the letter and gently placed it into the envelope, then sealed it with a quiet sense of finality before neatly writing his mother's name and address on its surface. Once everything was in order, he turned his gaze to the small, grimy bed that had been his constant companion for the past decade. Its worn frame, chipped paint, and the thin, torn mattress spoke volumes about the years it had endured beneath him. He slowly lay down on the bed, feeling the springs dig into his back and the rough fabric scrape against his skin, a discomfort he had grown used to, a familiar sensation that somehow offered him a strange comfort in that small, stark cell.

Jack was drifting between sleep and wakefulness when he suddenly heard the faint sound of footsteps, guards' boots tapping steadily on the hard, unyielding surface of the main corridor. The door to his cell creaked open gently, and Peter, a veteran prison guard known for his gentle nature and kind demeanor, appeared at the threshold. With a smile, he asked, "Are you awake, Jack?"

Jack opened his eyes and said, "Yes, I'm awake."

Peter smiled and said, "I'm here to ask you what you want for breakfast."

Jack sat on the bed's edge and looked up at him with curiosity. "What's on today's menu?"

Peter's face softened as he stepped into the cell. "There is no set menu, but if you don't ask for anything exotic or unusual, our chef will prepare whatever you want," he said with a wink.

Jack's mind wandered to exotic breakfasts, but no specific memories surfaced. A turbulent past shaped his life. From a young age, he had been in and out of prison, and he had grown accustomed to the monotonous, predictable taste of prison food. For a long moment, he reflected deeply, trying to recall any special breakfast from his childhood. Suddenly, a distant memory arose. When he was about eight years old, his father, before leaving the family for good, took him to a cozy little café and got him a hearty Big English breakfast. That was the first time he had a meal other than the usual porridge for breakfast, and he remembered the richness of the sausages, the crispy bacon, the fluffy eggs, and the toast. He recalled the joy of sharing this special moment with his father, a rare instance of warmth and normalcy in his otherwise troubled life.

After his nostalgic memory, Jack turned to Peter and asked, "Can I have a Big English breakfast with a mug of flat white, with two sugars?"

Peter nodded, took a small notepad from his pocket, and jotted down Jack's order.

Jack then added, "Today, I want to treat myself to something indulgent. I hope it doesn't raise my blood cholesterol and sugar too much."

Peter chuckled softly and replied, "Once in a while, indulging in unhealthy treats is fine, but it's best not to make a habit of it."

"I keep your advice in mind," Jack replied with a mischievous smile.

Peter nodded in response and asked, "Is there anything else?"

After a brief pause, pondering, Jack said, "Can I also ask for some extra sausage and scrambled eggs?"

Peter smiled warmly and replied, "Not a problem."

"Thank you, Peter," Jack said sincerely.

"You're very welcome," Peter responded kindly.

"I'm sorry for being a pain in the ass at times during my stay here."

Peter nodded appreciatively and said, "I have a short memory, and I tend not to dwell on the past," then chuckled softly.

"I hope you don't forget my big breakfast!"

Peter chuckled again and said, "Don't worry, my memory is not that bad."

Around 7:00 am, Father John, the prison's chaplain, entered his small cell, and with a warm smile, he said, "Good morning, Jack. I'm here for your reconciliation."

"Good morning, Father. I don't have anything to say," he replied wearily.

Father John's expression softened as he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Even nothing for the Lord! A prayer, a plea for forgiveness," he urged softly, hoping to reach into Jack's hardened soul.

"Since I first began to know myself, I've sinned. I don't think I have any leverage with the Lord anymore, no matter how much I might want forgiveness," he replied.

"But the Lord is merciful."

"I really hope He is."

"So, what can I do for you, my son?" Father John asked.

"As a man of God, please pray for my soul."

"Sure, I will," Father John replied and began reciting a prayer from memory.

When Steve arrived at the cold, gray cell, Father John was concluding his prayer. Out of respect for the priest and the sacredness of the moment, Steve silently waited outside the door until the priest finished. Once Father John finished his prayer, he gently nodded to Steve and motioned for him to enter. Steve stepped inside quietly, his head bowed in humility and his voice trembling with emotion as he spoke, "I'm so sorry, Jack. The governor also rejected your clemency request. I hope you can forgive me, as I truly feel I failed you."

"Don't worry, Steve. You did everything you could do, and I genuinely appreciate your efforts," he replied softly.

Steve hesitated, a tear threatening to fall as he responded, "Thank you, Jack, but I still feel I didn't do enough. I wish I had been able to do more for you."

"You were a single person facing a seemingly insurmountable mountain. Despite that, you did well."

Steve looked down, feeling defeated.

"I wish I had had you as my lawyer during my trials," Jack said with a hint of humor and warmth.

Steve's eyes welled with tears as he looked at Jack, feeling a mixture of sorrow, gratitude, and helplessness, and said, "It's kind of you to say that, Jack. I only wish I could have done more."

"Have you seen yourself in the mirror this morning?"

"No, why?" Steve asked.

"You look tired, man! Go home and get some rest, Steve."

"But I want to be with you up to the last minute," Steve replied.

"To see I die. Go home and always remember me, like what I look right now, alive and healthy."

"But..."

Jack interrupted him and said, "Steve, go home. I don't want you to see me die. Please go home."

"As you wish," Steve said, and reached out his hand for a handshake.

Jake grabbed his hand, gave him a firm handshake, and said, "Farewell, counselor."

"Farewell, Jack."

Steve nodded and exited the cell with a slow, heavy gait.

"Farewell, my friend. I wish I had parents like yours, teaching me to be a good and caring person, helping others," he murmured to himself.

Shortly after Steve departed, two prison guards arrived at Jack's cell. Jeremy, the senior officer, a stern-looking man with a no-nonsense expression, faced Jack and said, "It's time, Jack."

Jack nodded slowly, a flicker of resolve crossing his face. Carefully, he pushed himself up from his narrow, uncomfortable bed, the metallic frame creaking softly beneath him. He approached the small metal mirror mounted on the cell wall, its surface slightly tarnished but still reflective. As he stared into his own eyes, he saw a fleeting, almost unfamiliar reflection, as if it belonged to someone else. He extended his hand, ran his fingers through his hair to tidy it, then faced the guards. His voice was steady, with no hint of fear or hesitation: "Let's go." Unexpectedly, a strange calm settled over him, giving him a sense of fearless detachment, as if his consciousness floated just outside his body, observing everything from afar. At that moment, he was mentally ready to confront whatever awaited him, even his death, with an unusual sense of acceptance and serenity.