A Day in the Life

I live alone in a one-room studio apartment, with no partner, roommate, or pet to keep me company and ease the crushing loneliness I feel. The room is small, with minimal furnishing — a bed, sink, toilet, desk, chair, and a bookcase — stuffed with magazines and books that have provided some measure of solace in the loneliest times. A color photograph of a smiling boy and woman sits on the desk, a reminder of a life I once had.

I don’t get many visitors, and when someone does drop by, it’s usually Pat, my best friend since kindergarten. He’s stuck with me through thick and thin, and he’s about the only friend I have left — certainly the only one who visits these days. We reminisce and laugh about old times, shenanigans, and mutual friends, but he’s aware of my situation and doesn’t overstay his time. I enjoy his visits, and it’s depressing when he leaves, but I deal with it the best I can. 

Which brings up the other visitor I have regularly: my therapist, Dr. James Dobbins, who doubles as my spiritual advisor. We talk about a lot of things that are on my mind: my fears, regrets, and dreams for the future I hope to someday have. He listens and nods, and writes in his notepad without saying much, other than an occasional question to dig deeper into my thoughts.  

At the end of our session, he closes his notepad, tells me I’m making good progress, then recites a prayer about God’s love and forgiveness, and how He is always with me, and will never leave me or forsake me. But unlike God, Dr. Dobbins leaves me every time he walks out the door, and once again, I’m alone with my thoughts and God’s unseen, unfelt presence until he returns for next week’s therapy session.  

I go outside for an hour each day to get fresh air and exercise. I stroll around the fenced, tree-lined yard and imagine walking my dog, Fetch, who is no longer with me. Most days, after walking a few rounds, I’ll stop to rest beneath the gnarled oak in the yard’s corner and squeeze the little yellow rubber ball I used to throw for him to fetch. He was the best fetching dog ever, hence the name. I sure miss his unconditional devotion and love that only a dog can give. 

I’m pretty tired after my walk this evening, and I eat a quick dinner of Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas, then brush my teeth, and head to bed early. Barely had my head hit the pillow until I drift off to a blissful sleep. 

I open my eyes to a most delightful scene. Am I dreaming? Maybe, but I don’t think so because it’s all so vivid and clear that it must be real. I’m at the park, sitting on a bench next to my beautiful wife, Sarah. My son Ethan is playing on the nearby play-set, scampering up and down the ladders, riding down the slide, and swinging his imaginary sword at invisible pirate invaders. The sun is bright and warm, and the trees sway in a gentle breeze that lightly caresses my skin. I breathe the fresh air and bask in the moment. 

“This is fun!” Ethan shouts. “Come on, Daddy, play with me.” I hop up from the bench and climb the rungs to the top of the play-set and sword-fight with him, thrusting my invisible sword until he turns and runs, and I chase him around the deck in a game of tag. Sarah smiles from the bench below, her eyes moist, and she mouths, “I love you, babe.”  

I smile and blow her a kiss. This is the life I always wanted, and I never want this to end. How could I be so lucky to have such a family like this to love and call my own? 

Something’s not right. The pleasant environs of the park, the trees, the playground, my wife, and son flicker like an old movie projector reel, rising and falling like undulating ocean waves. I reach for my son, but in vain, as my family fades from view. “No, come back!” I cry. “Don’t leave me alone!”

I’m whisked away in a vortex of color and sound, a maelstrom, a cyclone, swirling, spinning, surreal, tossing me around like a rag doll, threatening to tear me apart. 

When I think I’m done for, and I will surely die, the storm inexplicably stops, and I’m standing in the living room of my house, surrounded by a new bedlam I can’t comprehend. What is this? Why am I here? 

I hear screams, shattering glass, and dull thuds of a blunt object crushing bones and smashing skulls, and there are red splatters all over the walls, floor, sofa, and me. The pandemonium ends, and it’s quiet. I see two figures lying face down on the floor near me. I drop the fireplace poker I’m holding — why is it in my hand? — and I kneel at the smaller body and turn it around towards me, the face bludgeoned and covered with blood. It’s my son, Ethan. My stomach heaves and I retch. 

I lean over to the second body and flip it around. The face is unrecognizable, but I already know it’s my wife. “Oh, Sarah!” I cry. “Who did this to you?” I cradle her lifeless body in my lap and ‌ try to process the carnage. What happened? Who could have murdered my wife and son? 

I sit there in shock for the longest time, by the bodies of my slain family, and ponder the possibilities. Nothing makes sense. A horrifying thought creeps in from the darkest recesses of my mind — a thought so terrible and insidious that it surely can’t be true. Was it me? Did I do this? Oh my god, please no. 

It hits my gut like a sledgehammer, and I vomit. I wail and scream and flail at the air in anger, and fall backwards into the black abyss.

Somewhere along the hazy edges of my unconscious being, I hear knocking. My eyes flutter open as I awaken, the sound louder, insistent, impatient. I sigh with relief; I’m in my room, in bed, safe from the nightmares that torment me. Someone’s knocking at the door.

“Coming,” I call out. I jump out of bed, put on my slippers, and answer the door. I have visitors, but other than Dr. Dobbins, there’s nobody I want to see. Not today, not ever. But I know why they are here. And right now, more than any other time since I’ve lived here the last three years, I want to be left alone in my little apartment, just me, all by myself.  

Standing by Mr. Dobbins is a man impeccably dressed in an expensive-looking blue suit, some uniformed officers, and several people I don’t recognize. 

The suited man wears a nametag on his shirt that says “Warden T. J. Winthrow” He clears his throat and says, “Benjamin Garret?” 

“Yes, sir,” I answer. He nods, looks at the i-pad in his hand, and reads: “Benjamin Garrett, we have received a final ruling from the court. Your appeal has been denied.” He wipes his brow with his crisply pressed handkerchief. “Tonight, at 11:59 pm, by order of the state…” 

His words dissolve into incoherent mumbling in the distance, yet I already know the pronouncement before he says it, and it stings like an angry slap as I face the fate I have long expected and feared.

Tonight, at 11:59 pm, by order of the state of Mississippi, the death sentence for the murder of my family will be administered by lethal injection, and I will vacate the solitary confinement of my prison cell forever.