My first and last cigarette clung to my lips as I inhaled the chemicals. My hands void from the un-repairable damage they received, my face a contorted mess from the beatings I received that night. I was only identified by the teeth at the crime scene. The knife I clutched in my right broken hand used to kill them. I was a lefty. I couldn't talk because my tongue was cut out; I was unable to tell them what happened, and my hands unable to write the story I desperately wanted to tell.
Evidence pointed to me that I was the one who killed the family, their bloodied hands and nails matching the DNA from my face and arms.
I inhaled the last bit of the toxic thing, the guard taking the butt and smashing it out in the ashtray. It was a wild guess how they knew what I wanted. Being twenty-five, I never smoked, I never got to do a lot of things.
The guard ushered me to my feet, disconnecting me from the feeding tube and walked me down the Death Road, that so many before me walked.
I got quiet stares, no one even doubting that I did it.
The guard strapped me down in the chair, people watching and waiting for me to take my last breath. The priest read my name and started a prayer. The tubes were pushed into my skin with needles, but I didn't flinch at the pain.
I scanned the crowd, my eyes landing on the one who killed the family. The one who managed to end my life. He sat next to another family, who belonged to the deceased no doubt. He smiled darkly, and I began to thrash and scream.
"May God have mercy on your soul." The priest said, just as they injected me with the cruel liquid.
I screamed, the liquid filling my veins. I was straining against the restraints to form a coherent sentence. I fought long enough that eventually my grotesque hands pointed at the man sitting next to the mourning family.
The darkness creeped around my sight, my screams were fading, but my hand held the pointed finger just as Death claimed me.
