"On account of his recalcitrance and numerous counts of... " "...the accused is hereby sentenced to death." the judge's voice boomed. I stared in disbelief at the judge. Color and sound faded away and I did not hear the low murmurs of the assembled. Surely there has been some mistake. Surely it cannot be so. I looked at the judge, stricken. His austere gaze and solemn countenance assured me he had made no mistake. I was to be sentenced to death. Countless thoughts flooded through my brain. "But..." I uttered a weak defense. The judge's expression did not change. Not even a crack. That was when I knew my position was untenable.

5 Days

Sitting in my prison cell in death row, I opened my eyes, ending my vivid recollection of the courtroom. Looking back, it was ironic. When I was the leader of The Vultures, I had been true to its name. A vulture picks on the sickly and dying. I picked on the weak and the defenceless, extorting them of money, crushing all opposition. As the undisputed leader of the gang, I had arbitrary judgment over who lived and who died. Needless to say, I had a lot of the gang's enemies put to death. Almost like a judge. Ironic indeed.

4 Days

I sat on the bench, staring at the sorry excuse of a meal in front of me. Rice, with a few meagre slices of chicken and broccoli. I poked the chicken with a spoon (forks are too dangerous for prison) and watched a bug float in the watercress soup. Nobody ever goes to prison for the food. Then again, nobody goes to prison willingly.

3 Days

I'd lost count of how long I'd been imprisoned. Initially, I had kept a mental tally, noting the days I'd been in prison. I had even dared to harbor hope that one of the vultures would rescue me. That hope fizzled and died after about a month. Who am I kidding, I thought. Jimmy Cron was probably overjoyed to have my position as boss. I just had to face the harsh reality that the jailbreak of his former boss was probably not the first thing on his mind. I stopped counting the days after that. What's the point? I have nothing to look forward to, anyway. Nothing but a date with death...

2 Days

I restlessly pace the confines of the prison cell. I was alone in the cell, a mercy given to death row inmates. Peace and solitude. It gave me ample time to think about things. I knew that tomorrow was the day. A prison tradition, and the last compassion to be shown to the soon to be departed. One more day till the last meal. See, traditionally, prisoners inform the prison about the contents of their last meal some time before their execution date. On the night before the execution, they are served the last meal. Rumor has it that a prisoner is allowed to have any food of their choosing for their last meal, if at all possible. Of course, I'd chosen mine, and the prison had agreed. I allowed myself a satisfied smirk. Tomorrow would be entertaining, if nothing else. But tonight... The smile drained from my face again as I thought about my predicament. I'd given up on escape. When I had arrived in death row, I'd tried all manners of jailbreak. You name it, I tried it. From classic jailbreak manual tunneling (turns out Prison utensils aren't made for tunneling through concrete) to attempting to pick the lock (Didn't have any good lock picks) to bribing the guards (they're much too scrupulous). All my efforts at escape fell flat, like the place was designed to preclude escape. Which, of course, it was.

Was this how all death row prisoners felt? I wondered as I brooded in the solitude of my cell. Yes, I'd killed and maimed. I'd robbed and stole. I'll admit that I lived an evil life. But did I deserve this? Does anyone deserve this? It is one thing to die in a gang fight. It is even considered honorable among gangsters to die in a gang clash. It is another to incarcerate a person to wait out his inevitable death. Despite what the public thinks about gangsters, we do have a sense of loyalty. If one of us are caught, we don't snitch on the rest, and many of us are willing to fight and die for our gang, like soldiers would fight for their country.

There may be no loyalty among thieves, but there is loyalty among gangsters. At least, that is what I thought. Jimmy Cron had proved me wrong.

I was in the courtroom, facing the judge. The Prosecution was the state. The Defendant was me and my Lawyer, Sam. When I was first tried in court, Jim had strongly recommended Sam as my defense lawyer. I hadn't thought much of it at that time. I was still confident. Confident that all charges against me would be dropped for lack of evidence. "Sam is a good lawyer," Jimmy had told me. "He's had years of experience and if anyone can prove you innocent, it's him. Trust me." And so I did. I sat on the defendant's panel, unafraid. I'd never really liked Jimmy Cron. He was cunning and he was ambitious. But he was also strategic and effective. Above all, he was capable. Capable enough to find a competent lawyer. I calmly heard the charges raised against me. I was unafraid. I was unstoppable. Then I saw the witness. Keddrick, I realized. The witness was Keddrick. But Keddrick is Jimmy's subordinate... I frowned, slightly confused. What was the meaning of this? Then I smiled. Ah, I see, Jimmy. You got your men to dilute the strength of the Prosecution. Clever. I leaned back in my chair, satisfied. There would be nothing to worry about. Not when Sam and Keddrick were there for me.

My smile changed to confusion once more as I heard Keddrick's testimony. He was doing an awfully good job at testifying. Was he trying to put on a show for the judge? Is that what it was? Or was he... I stole a look at Sam, trying to read the man's expression. Sam, for his part, looked utterly composed and without stress. Just a good lawyer? Or...

I dared not verbalize my fear.

"...sentenced to death." The judge's voice boomed.

NononononoNONONO!

I screamed internally. Everything had gone wrong. Keddrick had testified against me. He hadn't been putting on a show. Sam put up an almost pathetic defence for me, with every argument of his being effortlessly refuted by the opposition. He hadn't bothered to try again. He had never tried since the beginning. The words that I dared not verbalize reverberated in my head. Jimmy Cron. You betrayed me. The truth sank in. I was drowning. Drowning in deceit. Pinned and trapped, crucified by the men I trusted. I collapsed, my leg strength failing me. Jimmy... Capable of taking my place.

1 Day

Today will be my last meal. Hours from now, actually. I sit in my cell, anxious. It is said that many prisoners are unable to fall asleep the night before their execution. How can they? Only someone who has been on death row can describe the experience. And most of them don't get the chance to. But if I were to describe it... The word I'd use is suffocating. Everything is suffocating. The dirty grimy grey concrete floor beneath your feet, mocking your plight. Grey, the color of despair. I could almost hear the jeering of the floor. Try me, it seemed to say. I've outlived criminals of all types and you won't be the last. The air. Lingering with the almost palpable taste of despair, bitterness, frustration, regret. Conveying all these and so much more through painfully innocuous scents. The prison bars. Solid iron. Unyielding. Unforgiving. A barrier that seals off all hopes and dreams of inmates that ever was and ever will be.

It's funny how one decision can bring about a complete pivot in your life. One wrong decision, and I ended up in death row, waiting for death. Or perhaps it was a cumulative effect, the Karmic result of my compounded sins. In life, I had not believed in Karma. That'd been reflected in my lifestyle. But in death...? Minutes crawled by. Then hours. I say crawled, because time literally crawled. A common misconception is that inmates on death row would perceive time as accelerating. It's the opposite. Time crawls, slow and tantalizing, forcing you to languish over all the things that could be, but won't be. I could only pray. If there's a God... The shadow appeared in the corridor, elongated but humanoid, the way shadows are.

God? Of course not. God doesn't exist in prison. Prison wardens do, however. The prison warden is an African American man by the name of Jones, and he was a good man. He stood before me now, separated by the bars. Good and Evil can never truly be on the same side. But he gave me a look not of hate, but of pity. Pity for the man who once ruled the world, and was now condemned by the world.

"It's time for your last meal, Milan. " Jones whispered. Milan. My name.

I shot him a rueful smile. "I don't suppose you'd accept a bribe?"

Jones smiled. "Then I wouldn't be doing my job, would I? But I'll pretend I didn't hear that." And that was that.

I was led handcuffed into a white room under constant surveillance. Once there, my handcuff was unlocked for the purpose of eating my last meal. The meal in question rested daintily on a plate in the middle of a table made for one. The usual prison utensils accompanied it. The last compassion. A prisoner was allowed anything within reason for his last meal. I looked at the rectangular brown object in the plate. I dug in. "Chewy," I muttered, swallowing the brown covers, pretending it was beef. It took great effort to force the material down my throat. Book covers were never meant to be consumed. But what's the worst that could befall me now? I ripped at the papers fervently, crumpling them, tearing them, swallowing them. A demented sight. But I no longer cared.

0 Days I'd faced down fists. I'd faced down knives. I'd faced down guns. But now I faced the needle. And the needle won. Later on, though I wasn't to know it, rumors spread around the prison of a man who'd ate a satanic bible for dinner. It became one of the prison's 8 legends.

--TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2--