“Last words?” the nurse said, as she stood over me, holding a lethal injection in her hand.
I closed my eyes and thought of all the things I could say. But nothing came to mind. I thought of all the things I had done growing up:
Putting my younger brother’s hands inside a bowl of hot water, and scalding his fingers.
Pushing my baby sister down the stairs in a fit of rage, because she would not give me her candy.
Watching my mother cry and beg me to not hurt my baby brother when he was still a wee, tiny baby, as I stood holding a candle above him and threatening to drop the wax on him if my mom came closer, and doing it anyway, because she looked funny when she cried.
Pushing a kid from my kindergarten class from the balcony and getting expelled. She did not die though. Just broke her jaw. And it got fixed. Don’t know why they were so mad.
Fighting with a boy in my class when I was 16, and hitting him repeatedly on the head with a plastic flask till it broke.
The psychiatrist said I was born with a mental problem, he said I was born without empathy.
He said I should be taken to a correctional facility.
They were about to when I took my currently blind father’s cane, and made him walk around, groping at things until he fell and hit his head.
He didn’t survive it.
I looked up at the nurse again, and I remembered what she asked for.
And for some reason, I said, “I love you, mom.”
My mom, in her nursing uniform, held my hands and looked into my eyes as she pushed the content of the syringe into my system.
Then she said, “I know, son. I know.”