out the dead
I had accidentally killed somebody, and they put me on death row. They were supposed to give me a lethal injection within hours. I kept flailing my arms in hopes of catching on to some small morsel of hope, but the only thing within reach was the ridiculous prospect of fleeing to Mexico. Still, even that absurd and probably unlikely prospect was enough to keep me from falling headlong into despair. My family was allowed to visit. They looked defeated. It scared me that my parents seemed so resigned about my impending death. I tried to convince my mother to help me flee the country. She was dubious, but decided to try and help me anyway because that's what mothers do, I guess.
For some reason our escape plan took place within a supermarket. Naturally, it failed, but it did buy me another day of living.
But I may as well have been dead. I had never felt so much despair. To live without hope felt like living as something subhuman. I was in pure agony, but I could do nothing but stay still. I was eighteen years old. I had all sorts of things planned out for my life. But now I knew for sure that I would never get there. I had a few hours left, still. There was just no point.
Right as the needle was about to pierce my skin, I woke up.
For some reason our escape plan took place within a supermarket. Naturally, it failed, but it did buy me another day of living.
But I may as well have been dead. I had never felt so much despair. To live without hope felt like living as something subhuman. I was in pure agony, but I could do nothing but stay still. I was eighteen years old. I had all sorts of things planned out for my life. But now I knew for sure that I would never get there. I had a few hours left, still. There was just no point.
Right as the needle was about to pierce my skin, I woke up.