Last week

Death. Death never changes. It's always the same. Although they always beat you with something different, whether it's with an axe, a bayonet, or gas, the more different the death, the more it remains the same: painful, terrifying, surprising its victim when they least expect it. But that's still a good thing. It still makes sense. Besides the death that most people die—a death that may not necessarily be natural, but sudden and leaves no time for reflection—there's another kind of death. Preceded by terrible and prolonged psychological torment. This death may be just, but it's certainly not entirely fair. Because how can anyone treat death as a formality?

July 13, 1994—Texas, State Prison, Block D, Death Row.

My name is Neil. Neil Smith. This diary is the result of a conversation with a prison psychologist. I don't have much left, and I don't really know why I'm writing this. Will anyone ever read it? Who cares about the last week of a wreck like me? Yet the psychologist claims it will help. I don't know why, but I'm writing this anyway. Everyone who has ever found themselves in this cell wrote. I've decided to be no different. There's no point in dwelling on the past. People say that the present moment is what counts, and there's no point dwelling on what was. If a normal person says so, it probably applies to me even more. This morning I finished making funeral arrangements. It's funny, how funny it feels to discuss the fate of your body with someone. A body that will no longer be alive. I don't know if it should be funny, but it is for me. They say those so close to the end can't stand in front of the toilet, but I, I guess, am different. Mr. Brian comes to see me every day. He's a very nice man. Different from the prison guards. You can see the pain and compassion in his eyes when he talks to me. He doesn't seem to be a supporter of the death penalty. But he's a prison psychologist; that's his job, and that's what matters most. My health, which is remarkably excellent for my circumstances, is probably largely due to him and our conversations. Today he spoke about God. Religion. I've always thought that any faith is a waste of time, which, in reality, people don't have much of anyway. Ironically, I, a man who has even less time than free people, am beginning to think it's not a waste of time at all... I'm starting to wonder if it's a good thing I broke with religion. Maybe God really exists?

July 14, 1994 - Texas, State Prison, Block D, death row

I didn't sleep all night. I thought about God. I think he really does exist. I'll wait for Mr. Brian; I need to talk to him about this. Maybe I'll ask him to call a priest? I remember when my parents were still alive... I used to attend mass in the Catholic Church. One of the sermons stuck with me: "It's never too late for sincere conversion." I wonder if this applies to the man who raped and murdered two nineteen-year-olds? All will be revealed. Mr. Brian will be here in an hour. I have to admit that a diary is probably a good thing after all. It allows me to forget for a moment that I'll never celebrate birthdays again. Yes, it's a good thing. However, I've been having trouble writing since this morning. It's strange, because if I don't feel fear, my hand shouldn't be shaking like a fever, or like someone with Parkinson's. The mind knows that fear is pointless and won't change anything, so the only thing it can do is try to maintain my existence in a reasonably good shape, so it doesn't go crazy and I start going crazy, or better yet, so it doesn't rip through my veins. I've known people like that before. But the body and what I call the subconscious disagree. They're mortally afraid, just like any other condemned person. Sometimes I think about death for a long time, but more with sadness than with terror and panic. I come to the conclusion that when they're hooking me up to an IV, I'll be long gone. I'm actually already dead. Those awful months are what truly kill you. The constant thought that each second is getting closer, the daily ticking of the calendar, only to finally (in most cases) reach that day in the red circle. And those looks. They're probably the worst. The looks with which butchers look at animals waiting to be slaughtered. That prevails and sometimes leads to madness. During meetings on the exercise yard, or in the cafeteria, or in the prison library. This is truly deadly for prisoners. More deadly than death itself. I've never written so much in one day. I haven't written anything at all lately. Well, except for the court papers that had to be signed after the trial. The next day, I was on the cover of the Times. The photo captured the moment the judge said these words:

"According to the decision of a jury equal to yours in status and rights, the court sentences you to death by lethal injection. The verdict is not subject to appeal; it is final."

My expression was described this way:

"The defendant's expression shows complete indifference to the situation. Is that how a human being behaves? This is the sad truth: how any morality and human sensitivity are increasingly disappearing in society."

In another newspaper, I was called "the embodiment of Satan" and even "evil in human form." I admit, that actually made me laugh. After a moment's reflection, I came to the conclusion that I was like that. I was because I'm not. Death row has its good sides, too. This place dulls even the most evil-infused blades. I'm a completely different person than I was when I committed that heinous crime behind the disco. I look at it that way now. I probably would have sentenced myself to death, just like the judges did. But how can they make me wait so long? Now it's as if the fog has cleared; I see how stupid I was. What changes have taken place in me since my parents' death! Now I don't even swear quietly. But I guess it's too late for anything. How could God let me stray so far?

July 15, 1994 - Texas State Prison, Block D, Death Row

. Mr. Brian visited me. When I told him what I wanted to do, the compassion in his eyes suddenly vanished, and hope and joy appeared, as if to say: he'll manage. A moment after Mr. Brian left, a Catholic priest arrived. We talked for a long time. He didn't refuse me when I told him I wanted to convert, go to confession, and receive Communion. He smiled at me for that. He dispelled all my doubts. He left me a Bible. I'm very grateful to him for that. I recently read Robinson Crusoe, and a biblical quote from that book came to mind:

"Call on me in the day of your trouble, and I will deliver you, and you will

praise my name."

I began to believe these words. I took the book in my hands, and I don't know if it was autosuggestion or a miracle, but my right hand stopped trembling! I started reading. I read for a very long time. It was after five in the morning. Suddenly, I realized I might be hoping for a glimmer of hope for heaven! I needed to talk to the priest. He's a good man, just like Mr. Brian. The priest is coming to hear my confession today, and I can't wait. I cleaned my cell nicely, or at least as nicely as conditions allowed. Today, the guard brought me a low-alcohol beer. I know what that means. I know prison etiquette and customs very well. This custom is called "5 beers remaining." I'll be getting a beer every day now, until the very end. It's a prison tradition. As if the guards were trying to sweeten my life a little. Or rather, its twilight. But I decided not to drink. It's funny how the words from Robinson Crusoe, or rather the Bible, resonated with me, even though I had little in common with the castaway. The Bible. Believe me, diary, if every prisoner were given a Bible instead of a psychologist, and everyone willingly read it, the last days would be so much easier. I've just realized one thing: this diary is my best friend! And perhaps my only friend, because I can't really call a psychologist or a priest friends in the sense of buddies or colleagues. At first, I didn't believe it would do me any good, but now, combined with the soothing and hope-giving influence of the Bible, I feel almost like a normal person! I've discovered that what I've called my subconscious throughout my entire para-adult life is actually my soul and conscience, which previously tried with the last of their strength to dissuade me from the act that brought me here. The soul. That's what Christians call it. God allowed me to free my soul from sin just a few days before my certain death. Isn't that beautiful? My tattered and ravaged conscience was finally finding relief. Previously, it had never been possible for them to penetrate the shell of evil. Yes, I guess I was evil incarnate. Besides these murders, I had many other, lesser crimes on my conscience. True, I later confessed to them, but it didn't matter anyway, considering the maximum sentence.

I remember always being accused of being the most aggressive. In elementary school, they said that the one who plays the bravest tyrant on the outside is the most fearful on the inside. Back then, it seemed like nonsense to me, but now I know that nothing could be truer. Where is the Being who invented all this?

July 16, 1994 - Texas, State Prison, Block D, Death Row

Ah, what a relief! I thought I'd be afraid of confession, but once it all began, I felt good. I felt a strange lightness afterward. This feeling intensified when I received Holy Communion—the feeling intensified. It's wonderful! The priest said you can receive Holy Communion even once a day. Now I can't forget it and I'm longingly awaiting tomorrow. What a strange state of happiness, something completely different from drugs. Returning to my hope for heaven, the priest said that you never lose your "chance" of heaven, but to get there from where I stand, you have to truly and sincerely repent of your sins. Is my repentance sincere enough? I don't know. But I have such hope. Then I went for a walk and talked to an old "acquaintance," or rather, an accomplice in a small gang of car thieves that was discovered and destroyed. Most of the twelve-person group ended up in prison; I managed to escape thanks to my lawyer's help. I told him I'd converted and tried to describe the wonderful feeling. He replied, "

Are you crazy? God? If there's a 'God,' it's money. You're crazy, that's all. You're just so close to the end of this kennel, and you're either scared as hell or you're just so dizzy with joy."

Honestly, I'm not at all surprised by what he's saying. A year ago, I would have agreed without a moment's hesitation. Returning to my cell, for some reason, I fainted. The sun, along with a sleepless night, probably did their thing. After that, I spent a long time in the infirmary. The guards take great care of the condemned. Executions were sometimes postponed when they were truly ill. Today I decided to add a note to the wall. All the inmates of Block D in this cell signed it (I think it's the same in every cell, but I'm alone here now, and frankly, I doubt I'll have the opportunity to greet anyone new). The first signature was from 1968. Back then, there was still a gas chamber here, but nothing beats Edison's brainchild: the electric chair. Proponents of this punishment stubbornly claim that the services provided by this pleasant "piece of furniture" are completely painless, yet none of them were steadfast enough to try it themselves. I thank God that my death will probably be the most humane possible. Or maybe I don't deserve such a death? Maybe I should die in a gas chamber, with my eyes bulging and my tongue hanging out? It probably wouldn't make any difference to me, but some kid (planning to "remove" someone) who saw a picture of me sitting like that on the cover of some newspaper the next day would never even think about such a thing again. I admit that while writing this, I realized I've become interested in the topic of executions, both current and past. I think I'll ask a guard tomorrow to bring me documentation of old death machines. It's forbidden, after all, but what wouldn't you do for someone who won't live to see another week? It's funny how easily I think about what will happen to me in such a short time. I admit I feel proud, though probably unjustly, because a lack of fear in such a situation is probably downright unhealthy. Did God give me solace and the ability to stay sane, or have I gone crazy and just don't realize it?

September 17, 1994 - State Prison, Block D, Death Row

I received Communion again. Then I ate lunch and asked the guard for the documentation. He was very surprised, but he didn't refuse. I started reading immediately. I read for a long time and learned many "interesting" things about the chair, the gas chamber, and the injection. I ignored the dimensions on the pages where they were written, only looking at the drawings. The chair, or the "painless death" of the Great Depression. I always wondered why chairs were made of wood? Only now did I read that a person strapped to a metal chair, 100 percent metal, would have to be scraped off after execution, in addition to who knows what torture. It's not a pleasant death. That's why only the four electrodes, the helmet, and the neck pillow were metal. This is where the current flowed. The most important of these was the helmet, because "with the right method, the current was quickly conducted to the brain, causing almost instantaneous death." I wouldn't want to die like that. As far as I know, the chair is still in use somewhere; let me know in Cuba. The second was the gas chamber. The entire execution cycle began with the cutting of the safety rope. This caused a bag containing some substance that caused fainting to fall into a bowl inside the chamber, behind the condemned person's chair. The condemned person was then killed with gas. It's strange, why am I writing this with such fervor? Is there still a vein of sadism left in me? Fortunately, that vein will never create a loop in anyone's larynx again. But I have to finish writing. There was also an IV drip, a method still used today. The guard didn't arrange much paperwork on the subject. Perhaps it's a good thing, how I would look in God's eyes when, in my final moments, instead of praying, I kept repeating to myself, "This button is about to press the green button and I'll fall asleep. It's a shame I won't get to see the end of this." However, I know enough to string a few sentences together. After connecting the IV, three substances flowed through the IV in succession: one to induce sleep, the other to stop breathing, as the documentation stated, and I couldn't find anything more about the third. Of course, the entire cycle lasted several minutes, and before it even began, the security guards had to remove all the safety devices protecting against possible "unpleasant accidents." I'd rather die immediately than get out of bed, go to the "waiting room," and wait another hour for repairs. And apparently, such things have happened before. It must have been terrible. One needle clogged, and how much stress. Although, looking at it from a different perspective, that's an hour more for a conversion. That's all for now, my friend. But I've written enough, I think I'll get some sleep now. Goodnight, my friend. It's late.

September 18, 1994 - State Prison, Block D, Death Row

Another beer with dinner... Tomorrow morning, they'll probably come to ask me about my last meal. They always do it the day before, because prisoners usually like to be picky at the end. Apparently, one of the prisoners demanded the director's dog for his last meal. They knew it was the only way to prevent him from causing trouble on the way to the IV (the man got very upset when his wishes weren't fulfilled. That's why he ended up in Block D), so after difficult discussions with the director, which reportedly even brought tears, the dog was prepared. However, instead of eating the "roast," the joker hung it on a string and took it out for a walk. That's what I call good humor until the end. And tomorrow evening, they'll probably move me to the "waiting room," the place where a prisoner spends the last 24 hours of his life, without his personal belongings. If only they'd let me keep my diary. What a profound change it has brought to my life. You're probably the most important inanimate thing in my life, full of demoralization and violence. People look for miracles in the sky and in nature. I know this diary is a miracle. I'm grateful to God for shaping my life so that I could write it. Thanks to it, I've learned to look at death differently than just through fear. And lately, I've been sleeping very peacefully. This is important to me, because just a week ago, I was having terrible problems with it. Today, I was in the yard for the last time. I said goodbye to the sun with great sadness. The last time is always sad, but as the old saying goes, something ends, something begins, and this has given me great comfort. A death sentence. I think I'm having a moment of doubt. How terribly our law has transformed death into a routine procedure. This is truly a lack of morality. How can you make death a checkbox? It's monstrous! I'd rather be strangled behind a disco with a cable. It's so monstrous... The procedure of death is probably more fatal to me than death itself...

Postscripts – about an hour later. Better… I've calmed down. It was a storm in my mind. Despair took over me for a moment. I think I even cried. But it's okay now. I've calmed down. I can continue. I'd like to write one more thing. We don't have many meetings ahead of us, so I have to write as much as possible now. When I came here, there were two other people: a woman who dismembered her husband during an argument and a huge white man who bashed in his manager's head with a jackhammer (at a construction site). They had conflicting personalities and even more conflicting views, and the one who came here was also seven feet tall, with muscles the size of ripe melons. The woman committed suicide by slicing her wrists. Terrible? It's the most common practice in American prisons, and no one can stop you from doing it because everyone knows that few people will. Breaking down enough to do something like that is almost impossible. I remember her body. I was returning from the spa, and the orderlies were packing a body in a bloody, orange prison uniform into a plastic bag. The guy didn't sell his skin lightly either. While walking the Last Mile to the theater, as everyone jokingly called the room with a bed on two sides covered with a one-way mirror, he broke free from the guards and broke one of the man's ribs. The other quickly pulled out a tranquilizer gun, and the guy apparently died with a smile on his face. On execution night, they always show some hardcore pornographic film. I don't know what purpose it serves, but I know that every execution features some really hard porn. This community, on the fringes of society, is additionally fed by our authorities with another dose of demoralization. It's just adding wood to the fire. How could God allow something like this?

September 19, 1994 - State Prison, Block D, "Waiting Room"

Hello, diary. I'm sorry to say this, but I don't think we'll meet again except for what I'm writing now. I ordered fruit for my last meal. They allowed me to keep you. How fortunate that no one objected. A priest is always on duty next to the cell I'm in now. Unfortunately, I happened to come across a Protestant one. Out of boredom, I decided to ask him what he thought about the death penalty. It's funny how divided one religion can be: unlike the Catholic Williams, Pastor Butterfield, as he's called, argues that such a punishment is perfectly fine. I hope I'm spiritually mature enough to say this: deep down, this man is in a much worse situation than I am. I still wonder how death could be formalized. Killing in cold blood at the push of a button. Thinking about it, I cried at night, not for myself, but for everyone else who found themselves in the same situation. I'm not particularly concerned about my own misery. I think even my lawyer was more concerned about the disastrous loss of the case and the rejected appeal. With that case, he lost, indeed, my life, or rather, the first stage of it. The long stage was the last six days, and I think I emerged victorious... But is God really waiting for me there?

September 20, 1994 - State Prison, Block D, "waiting room"

11:30 PM

This is the last half hour of my life. In fifteen minutes, I'll start getting ready. Mr. Brian will take you with me. I'm ready: new orange suit, rolled-up right sleeve. I just finished praying and received Communion. I think I'm finishing up quite gracefully for a man with such a past? I slept a long time today. It's strange, but sleep didn't cause me any problems. I lay down and slept. The president, governor, and state sheriff are probably already at the red phones to call and call off the execution if necessary. But I know those phones weren't for people like me, and they won't be this time. I'm no longer tormented by thoughts of the senselessness of such death. I've realized that those who sentence criminals to death are, in reality, little better than them. I'm beginning to envy the deaths of my victims. But that's probably a sin... I'm going, it's time for me to go. Goodbye, diary, my last, and indeed only, friend.

Neil Smith.

Brian put down his small green notebook. His eyes were moist. In the infirmary, there was only him, Father Williams, praying over Smith's corpse. In the background, the only sounds were the priest's quiet meditation and the humming of the infirmary refrigerator. A drop of water ran down the psychologist's almost vertical cheek. His bloodshot green eyes were now covered by his hands.

"This is the man whose soul God has returned," Williams muttered thoughtfully, putting down his prayer book, and covering Neil's face with a white shroud.

"God doesn't give us our souls back," he said gently, grabbing Brian's arm, "he just reminds us of them. We can listen, or not. He listened. Rest assured, he doesn't regret it now.

" "I don't think this job is for me; there's too much stress, pain, and suppressed despair," he said, sobbing now.

"You're the best psychologist I know, Martin. Without you, these people would be chewing their way through their veins, giving their souls no chance of conversion.

" "Thanks, Kris. You can go now. Get some sleep. I'll wait for the hearse; it's due in half an hour." After a farewell gesture, the priest left. After a moment's reflection, Martin picked up the diary and began writing:

September 21, 1994 - State Prison, Block D, Infirmary.

These are the first and last words written here by someone other than Neil Smith. Thank you, diary, for your help. It's funny how such a soulless object can transform a murderer into a devout Catholic. No other diary has ever been written the way you have. Thank you.

Brian put down his pen and, wiping his tears, muttered,

"You're getting weird, Brian. Thank you to the piece of paper."

He stood up and first moved towards the body. He lifted the shroud and placed the notebook next to Smith's head. It seemed to him that his face twitched, and from a strange expression of satisfaction, it transformed into a slight smile.

"No, that's impossible," Martin said quietly. After all, he's in Heaven...

The soul. The soul never changes. Although sometimes it's surrounded by a shell of evil, from behind which one can't hear its desperate cries for repentance and reformation. But not always. Sometimes you can win. Because the soul never changes and always waits with hope to be heard.

Note! This text has nothing to do with the book "In Half an Hour I'll Meet the Lord God" (or similar) and is not plagiarism. I wrote it before I knew of its existence.