Parima Haque
In a few hours my execution will be complete. I wonder what will become of this unwanted, white piece of paper that I am writing on. Maybe it will be left behind and no one will even get a trace of its existence. I feel like I am starting into the dark abyss of death that now awaits right in front of me and I don’t have anybody by my side to guide me through the final hours of this journey of life. Knowing that I am now smoking the last cigarette that will ever be offered to me, I can sense the heaviness in my heart. The burning hatred with which I am forced to die alone is slowly eating away at me every fleeting second that passes by. I am drowned in silence, smelling, for the last time, the prickled, sunshine-yellow roses handpicked for me by the prison officer’s office. I feel like the world has done a great deal of injustice to me. Doesn’t God even exist? Doesn’t he see that I am being wrongfully hanged? How am I, an empty being whose heart the angel of death is about to rip out supposed to feel? Maybe this scrap of paper will succeed in making me immortal in at least the minds of the people chosen by fate to read it. Or maybe it will forever be lost in my abyss…