You plan your life so it is safe, productive, and fulfilling. And then the unexpected happens.

You find yourself convicted of committing a very serious crime, which puts you behind bars for a long time. Each day is darker than the one before. You’re isolated and alone. However, if anybody will listen, you maintain your innocence. The outcome of your efforts becomes clear in . . .

But I Didn’t Do It

    Twelve years—twelve miserable years. Will the torment ever end? I can’t handle it anymore. I hate what they’re doing to me. I didn’t do anything to deserve this?

     I don’t know what to do. Nothing I’ve tried is right. Five attorneys have walked away. They told me they were unable to help. “It will soon be over,” they said. I want to scream at the top of my lungs—proclaim my innocence. But nobody wants to hear my side of the story.

     The warden and guards rarely speak to me. They treat me with disrespect—just push me around. One called me a “sorry soul,” who belongs in hell. How do I make them understand? I’m just a job to them. They clean my cell and make sure I’m fed. But they don’t care about me.

    Alone on death row, I live in a world of eerie silence. The quiet is overwhelming. I can hear the ants crawling on the floor beneath my bed. I’m tempted to reach down and play with them. Almost anything would be better than the nothingness that consumes me.

    Silence broken. The words that flow through my mind are driving me insane. I have no idea where they’re coming from. They’re noisy and irritating. And they’re getting louder. So much so, my head’s going to burst.

    “Yes, I can hear you,” I yell. “But who are you and what do you want?” Quiet—no answer. And then, a question . . . “Yes, I’ll do anything you want me to do. Just tell me what it is. Don’t drag this out any longer. Stop it! Please, stop it.”

    Silence. Absolute nothingness. “Where’d you go? Don’t leave me in darkness again. Speak to me. I told you I’d do anything and I meant it.

    “What? Did I hear you correctly? You want me to. . . . But I won’t. I can’t. Why? Because I didn’t do it? Yes, I did say I’d do anything. But not that.

    “No, I’m not a liar. But you’ve overstepped your bounds. Don’t I have some rights left?”

    Silence. The ants are coming again. They’re crawling up the side to the bed. No. No. I think they’re after me. “Did you put them up to this? Answer me.

    “You must have, for there’s nothing up here for them to want. But you say you didn’t. Then why are they still coming? Oh, God! I see one on the sheet. Get away from me, or I’ll . . .

    “It’s turning in the other direction. Going over the side of the bed. I can’t see it anymore. You did this to me, didn’t you? You don’t have to respond. I already know the answer.”

    My mind. My mind. I’m losing my mind. Twelve years—twelve miserable years. I didn’t do anything to deserve this?

    I hear somebody coming. “What are you saying? I should ignore them. But why? Maybe they’ll talk to me.

    “I shouldn’t speak to them. Why not? They could be my last chance for freedom. What? You say that’s impossible. I don’t want to hear that. You don’t know.”

    The footsteps. They’re coming closer. They’re placing a key in the lock. Oh, my God, I can’t stop trembling. My hands are ice cold. I’ve got cramps in my legs. But I’ve got to have courage. I have to let them know how I feel and that I’m innocent.

    “They won’t listen,” you say.

    “I thought you left. You don’t know they won’t. Why are you saying they don’t care? They’ve fed me and clothed me for twelve years—kept me alive. That’s caring, isn’t it?”

    I’ve got to pull myself together. The door is opening. Oh, my! It’s not them. . . . It’s a woman. And she’s beautiful. But where did she come from?

    “Yes, I want her. But I can’t have her? Why not? She’s not real,” you say.

    “How do you know? I can see her. No, she’s not a figment of my imagination.”

    “Hello, pretty lady.” Silence—no response. I said, “Hello.” Still no reply.

    Oh, my, she’s reaching out to me. “Donald, Donald Mason, take my hand.”

    But I can’t move. My legs are pinned to the bed. I can’t sit up. This isn’t right.

    “Please give me the freedom to do this. What? I don’t deserve to be free. But, you’re wrong.”

    Oh, my. Her auburn hair is blowing in the breeze. But what breeze? There are no windows in my cell. And she closed the door when she entered. Where is the wind coming from?

    She’s smiling and motioning for me to follow her. But I can’t. I’m paralyzed. “Don’t tease me. Please don’t. I can’t handle this. I want you.”

    Oh, my God! She’s taking her clothes off—exposing her breasts. I can’t control myself, but I still can’t move. “Don’t do this to me. This is pure torture.”

    I’ll close my eyes. If she can’t be mine, she needs to go away. This isn’t fair. “What did I do to deserve this?

    “What do you mean, I should know? I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. And where have you been? You need to help me get out of this—to prove my innocence. “Huh, what do you mean, I’m not innocent? I did this to myself. What are you saying? I murdered her—my girlfriend. But I . . .”

    I opened my eyes and looked up. She was gone. I was in a strange room, strapped to a huge black chair. An awful looking man in uniform placed a mask over my face. I sat alone in silence. Then everything became dark—still. I smelled gas. My breathing became labored. I gasped for air. More darkness. Silence. My head fell to my chest and . . .

    The warden looked up at the clock on the wall and spoke, “Time of death—eight thirty-five a.m.”

    A week later, the headline in the Tribune read, “Innocence Project Exonerates Donald Mason in the Death of Patricia Sterling.”

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.