Sins of an Angel

My arms itch like crazy under the straight jacket I’m forced to wear whenever I’m let out of my cell. I’m in the solitary confinement unit of the Greyrock Penitentiary, on the outskirts of precious Little Rock, Arkansas, only let out for my weekly physical. I’ve been sitting in a dark, empty room for so long that even so little as the velcro of the blood pressure cuff sounds like a metal band scream hopped up on acid when the doctor tears it off. He takes the stethoscope out of his ears and drapes it around his neck like they all do. 

“Mr. Jackson, if you can’t get your blood pressure to go down, they’re going to move your death date again. Have you even been taking your medication?”

I side eye him, “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

He rolls his eyes at me, “Look, don’t think the irony of the situation is lost on me. I’m just trying to do my job.”

That look in his eyes. He knows how fucked up this is. I raise a brow at him, a gesture to challenge him. “Which is what, exactly? Go on Dr. Dutiful, say what your job is here today.” No, his name isn’t actually Dutiful. I’m just being a smart-ass.

His eyes crinkle as they squint, revealing the middle age he is. For a long moment, there’s silence that’s deafening. The kind I’ve personally grown accustomed to, but he’s shaken by it. He puts the device back into his ears and holds the round metal piece to my back, “Deep breath in.”

I take a deep breath, complying. I don’t blame him for dodging the question. To him, I’m just another sick and twisted criminal on death row. It’s okay buddy, I know. Out of all the reasons you studied medicine, making sure a man is healthy enough for execution isn’t one of them. However, maybe it’s the fact I’m going to die, but I like to take these moments and live my best life. Today, I’m choosing to bust his balls. “Not going to answer that?”

He shakes his head and jots down my heart rate then stands to his feet, “I don’t make the rules, Colton. I’m just doing my job; whether it makes sense or not.”

“Pfft, come on Doc, I’m in solitary confinement every fucking day. Humor me and give me some human interaction. Maybe my blood pressure will be where it needs to for me to die. Then I’m long gone, out of your hair.”

He looks at me as though he pities me. I can see behind those wrinkled, pale blue eyes under those silver brows that he doesn’t even agree with it. He sits back down and pinches the flesh between his brows. “I have to make sure you can physically take it. Once they deem you in good health, they’ll schedule your execution, and a counselor will take over.”

His explanation does nothing but make my blood boil. He says the words, but even they come out hollow. The justice system is fucking wrecked. It’s why I’m on death row in the first place. “The hell is a counselor going to do?” I bark out a laugh.

Doc isn’t humored, and he doesn’t bother hiding his disdain. “They’re going to prepare you mentally. Ensure you’ve tied up all loose ends. Help you make the perfect goodbye to your loved ones.”

Isn’t that the tits. They’re going to see me out of this world making sure I’m the best I’ve ever been before they strap me to a chair and fry my brains out to the point I piss and shit. How kind of them to make sure I’m mentally prepared for this dignified exit. I take one long look at him, my ice blue eyes staring right into his soul. I watch his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. Mouth is dry. I’ve struck a nerve. “Do you think I deserve to die?”

He bows his head and blows out a sigh of exasperation, “After what you did to that man, death row is a tender mercy.”

Goddammit, I thought we were about to have a moment. And we are, it’s just not one I planned on after asking that vulnerable question. “What I did to that man?! In comparison to what he did to my little girl?!” I start yelling to the point where my eyes are bulging and spit is flying. I writhe in my straight jacket when suddenly a baton connects with my stomach. The guards grab me and start hauling me off.

“Back to your cell you whiney little bitch!” One of them yells at me.

They aren’t gentle about removing my straight jacket and tossing me onto the cold, hard, mildew floor of my cell. The door slams shut and I’m met with dead silence once again. I close my eyes, not that it makes a difference in a room so dark I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. But the first image that always pops up is my daughter Isla. Her sweet little smile. Eyes a perfect hazel, hair as jet black as mine. Abducted right off school property. I had just broken up with my long-time girlfriend Gia, her mother. We were in a custody battle at the time. Then one day it didn’t matter. The school carelessly lost her, faced no consequences. Cops and their weaponized incompetence just saw her as another missing child. “I’m sorry Mr. Jackson, we’re doing everything we can, but you’re not the only parent who lost a kid.” they said.

Not. My.Isla. Giving zero fucks about anything but getting my daughter back, I dove down a dark web rabbit hole. Found her kidnapper, and the state I found Isla in, let’s just say, I made him pay a thousand times worse. Then I took his life. This man turned out to be connected to some underground run political party with an amount of money so obscene, the connections he had are how I got here after shoving a fire poker stick straight into his rectum, and twisting it like a screw driver. Being locked away for two years, waiting to die. I spend all my time in this urine and feces infested cell. I eat, sleep, and shit in here. The only thing holding me together is that damn weekly physical where I get to see a florescent light and my balls get a little squeeze when I cough, and the image of Isla and the justice I gave for her.

Two years since I’ve seen her face, heard her little voice. And I may never again. I don’t even get visitors. Ever. I’m not sure how much time passes. I never am. I just wait for them to slide food I wouldn’t feed a dog through the slot. Judging by taste and texture I’ve learned to tell what’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It’s how I’m able to tell what time of day it is.

One day, or night, the door opens. I assume it’s for my physical, but then the guard tells me something that makes my stomach drop. “Congrats Jack-Ass, it’s time to prep you for the chair.”