About Dan

I am a changed man. Changed by which I no longer care if I die tomorrow or today. Changed by which I no longer crave for love or for hope. Changed by which I'm no longer a man but a caged animal on his verge of death. You would think my time in prison would help recover the last pieces of humanity left in me. But no. I had grown too old to bother. For half of my life, I was forced to repent for the mistake I made as a young man. Yes, I was young. I didn't know back then about the laws of the state. I know nothing about sanctions, felony, or even homicide. I was out of school since I was twelve and the only thing I know about was that I was an angry kid. My family and I lived on a small trailer parked beside a highway of mud. Tractors often passed by our house during midday arriving on a small construction site three kilometers far from where our trailer sat. Our father would be home at night bringing with him his woman while my sister and I would sit outside the house, stomach rumbling while we cover our ears until they're done humping in our bedroom. The night my mother left, she sat beside our bed her faced purpled with bruises her eyes swollen and red. She never told us the reason she left. But as I got older, I began to understand. It was then when I was fifteen and my sister was seventeen. I was working full-time as a construction worker earning only fifty bucks a day. I would be home at six bringing nothing but a stale piece of bread and a few rusted materials on my bag. By the time I arrived at our trailer, I heard a muffled scream inside our house. I thought it was that hooker Criselda, he always brought that woman with him on Wednesdays. I opened the door expecting to see a blonde lanky woman behind the bead curtains of the bedroom. But it was Michelle, my sister. She was laying with her stomach on the floor, her dress was pulled over her head. Her eyes were swollen and blood dribbled from her lips as she wailed. My father was gripping her wrist, his trousers below his knees as he grind forcefully on my sister's back. The hatred that has loomed in my chest for years began to unravel. That moment I could no longer remember. The only vivid memory that remained with me that night was the image of my dad as he slumped on the floor half-naked, blood pooling behind his neck. My sister laid unconscious beside him. That night, I ran, shouting and begging our neighbors for help. It was midnight when the ambulance arrived. They carried my sister on a stretcher and wrapped my dad in pale blankets. That morning I arrived at the hospital, I saw my sister sitting in bed. There were bandages around her wrist. Her face was swollen and purpled with bruises, her eyes stared blankly at the floor. I talked to her, tried to hide my pain with a forced smile, but somehow deep inside me, I knew she was no longer there.  

A week after her released, my sister was transferred to a mental institution. I went back to our old trailer, heart heavy with grief from the sister I just lost, heart burning with rage for the father I once loved, and for the life I desperately hated. 

Grief is a powerful force. It changes a person. It buries a part of us that is kind and pleasant. It dims all our perspectives in life. In worst cases, it changes us into a beast. That was the case for me. Months after I killed my father, I was desperately looking for an escape from my miserable life. I left our trailer home and started a new life in the city. I worked days and nights to buy drugs, I sold stolen car parts, I smuggled drugs, pretty much everything that I did was for a meager pack of white powder. At the age of twenty, I met a man named Dwayne. For a few months, he became a brother to me. He introduced me to his hookers and offered me a job as his assistant. Back then, I had no idea what sort of rocket he was offering. I was a mess and from what I heard Dwayne pays well so I accepted his offer. He let me stay in his flat in Indiana and handed me a sum of 3000 dollars. It was the largest money I had ever held. He told me it was an advanced payment, and that I'd better not put myself on the fire. I drove with him to town, passing towering buildings of Indianapolis. At 5:45pm we arrived at a community hospital in Munster Indiana. It was dusk and the shadows were beginning to loom on the corners of the building. I unstrapped my seatbelt and unlatched the door. Dwayne gripped my wrist, I felt his muscles tense as his nails dug on my skin. "You have to do as I say, walk straight, run fast," he muttered. I stared at Dwayne in disbelief. It was the first time I saw him tense. His eyes were fixed on the rear window and somehow I noticed the fury beneath his gaze. "Understand?" he whispered. When I did not answer, he pulled something from his pocket trousers and pointed it at my head. It was a 45 caliber pistol. "Understand?" he repeated. My hands trembled. Back then I was too frightened to move or even utter a single word. So I nodded and trailed behind him. We trudged on the brilliant hallway of the hospital. Dwayne halted at the information desk. He asked the nurse about a guy named Luther. He talked to her and even flirted with her. But all I could hear was the loud thudding of my chest. "Room 305, third floor," she replied while biting her pen. We proceeded to the elevator. He hit three on the button. After a few seconds, we arrived on the third floor. The hallway was lit with a bright fluorescent light. Numbers were patched above each door. The last room was numbered 305. Dwayne turned towards me and handed the pistol. "Shoot him on the head, twice," he pointed at the door. And added, "Make sure he's dead or you're dead." I felt the weight of the pistol on my trembling hands. "Dwayne," I whispered, I did not know what to say. I was preoccupied with fear and anger at his betrayal. "Fuck! Just do as I say Danny!" he ordered. I stared at him dumbfounded. For months I thought I had gained with me a brother who could understand my pain. I gripped hard on the pistol. Anger rushing in my veins. Dwayne knocked my chest hard and I bumped on the wall. "Keep your shit together man and do your job!" He said finger pointing on my chest. I gaped at the man in front of me, finally seeing who he truly was. Dwayne stared at me, his eyes furrowed with hatred. "This is the last time, DO YOUR FUCKING JOB, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT!" he shouted in my face. My body trembled with anger. I shoved him out of my way, sauntered towards the room, kicked open the door, and blasted the pistol at the two strangers inside room 305.

Luther Raine and his wife Milarry Raine found dead at Community Hospital in Munster, Indiana.

April 25, 1981, at 6:13pm the remains of Mr. and Mrs. Raine were found inside their room at the Community Hospital in Munster, Indiana. A woman named Lorraine Smith who was in the room across the Raines said that she was awakened by the sound of a gunshot. She immediately called the nurse's desks but it was too late when the authorities arrived.

Meanwhile, a man named Danny Milford who termed himself as a "close relative" of the Rainer's said to have entered into the building a minute before the incident occurred. The suspect is still at large.

Suspect of the Murder of the Rainers, Danny Milford 20 years old found on his small apartment in east Indiana.

April 27, 1981. 7:34am, Danny Milford arrested from his Apartment in East Indiana. A 45 caliber pistol the same gun that was used at the Rainer's was found on his possessions.

May 1, 1981. 10:25am. Danny Milford pleads not guilty.

July 24, 1981. 2:30pm. Danny Milford convicted of Double Homicide, Sentenced to Death on the Indiana State Prison.

It had been 22 years since I arrived at the prison. I had counted the hours, days, weeks, months, and years for my execution. The walls of my cage had been filled with lines and numbers. Thousands of meager scratches on the walls that had been rubbed out with age. Half of my life I had spent sitting on the bed, asking for forgiveness, praying desperately for an escape from my impending death. But now as I grew older and step nearer to my doom, I knew I had no choice. An officer stood outside my cell. I know of him. He was new when I first came. He was once this lanky fellow who wore a proud face. Looking at him now, he must had felt a splinter of sympathy for me, for he can't meet my gaze. He locked the cuff of my wrist and tied my ankles with the same silvered metal cuffs. He opened the bars of my cell and we proceeded to the lower stairs. Funny how the building began to still when a man is about to be tied to a gurney. We stepped lower unto the stairs till we arrived at the bottommost part of the building. The hallway here was narrower compared to my cell. The air was moist, cold, and unsettling. The pale fluorescent lights flickered as we passed. Officer Butch, yes that's probably right, his name was Butch, guided me to a small dim room where a narrow bed laid against the wall, and small television and a telephone were piled atop a tiny coffee table. Officer Butch cleared his throat. "Ah, uhm, here's the phone you can call whoever you want," he muttered, still not meeting my gaze. "Dinners at seven and uhm, we're going to proceed at 12pm," he added. "For the meantime, you can uhm...watch the television or meditate," he glanced at his watch and left. I stared at the phone for a while not knowing who I was going to call. With a heavy sigh, I slumped on the bed. It smelled of dust and sweat. I stared blankly at the ceiling thoughts far from the confines of the room. I tried to think of the last words I was going to tell my sister. Would it be goodbye? Or I always think of you? No, my last statement should be poetic. With effect.

It was exactly 7pm when officer Butch arrived. he was carrying a large steel tray. I sat on the bed and accepted the tray, it smelled inviting. "Thanks..." I whispered. Officer Butch beamed and closed the door. I opened the tray, it was roast beef, it smelled sweet. At the midst of the tray was a creamy potato salad. A big cheesy burger and a glass of sparkly cola. Great, I haven't tasted anything like this since forever. I tried to nibble at the moist warm meat but after a few spoonfuls of salad, I felt tired and unmotivated. Food suddenly became stale to my taste. I left it on the bed half uneaten. I gulped the sparkly from the bottle and sat eyes fixed on the tiled floor. I did not know of the time, until Officer Butch opened the door with a man burly man behind him. It was the superintendent, Mr. Harrison. I gazed at them my mouth dry, despite the huge bottle of sparkly I just drank. "Mr. Milford, fifteen minutes from now, we shall proceed to the uhm... execution," he stared at me from the door his eyes were without emotion. "Have you already called your loved ones?" he asked. I glanced at the rounded wall clocked on the door and shook my head. "No..., I-" "Well perhaps you should call them now, time is,- it's running out," he replied. There was an unspoken sadness in his voice. He gestured to the phone and gave a slight reassuring smile. "Well, we shall give you a minute of privacy," said Mr. Harrison. They walked outside the room and shut the door. I sprinted towards the phone, my hands shaking as I hit the numbers of the mental institution. I memorized it by heart, it was the only reminder I had of my sister. The phone rang, then it rang, and rang twice. I swallowed as I knelt on the floor. "Hello, Logansport State Hospital, may I help you?" It answered. "Hello, I uhm-I ah," "Hello sir?" I cleared my throat and swallowed. "Imma- I'm Da-Danny Milford, I would like to speak to-to, to my sister please, Mi-Michelle Milford?" "I-I beg your pardon sir, Michelle what?" "Mi-MICHELLE MILFORD, PLEASE," I gripped the phone tightly my palms moist with cold sweat. There was silence on the other line. "Hello, Hello?" I asked. My heart thudding painfully in my chest. "I'm sorry sir, but based on our records, Ms. Milford died December 14th," there was silence, and she added "last year..." I stared at the pale walls in front of me, unable to breathe. "Wha-what?" "Sorry sir, but Ms. Milford is-is uhmn, deceased." My hands shook and I held the phone tighter between my hands. "No-no, there, there must be some mistake, I-I-I needed to-to talk to her," my voice began to quiver "Please, let me talk to-to Michelle," "I'm sorry sir," she replied and the line went down.

"Mr. Milford, time is up..." said Mr. Harrison behind me. I stared at the phone, my chest heavy with emotions. After a few seconds, I put the phone back on the table, stood, swallowed and nodded at the men behind me.

I laid myself on the gurney and allowed them to strap my wrists and my ankles. Mr. Harisson proceeded with his statements while I lay numb on the bed. "Mr. Milford, any last statements?" I glanced at the men who were about to kill me and saw their sympathy reflected in their eyes. Pain tugged at my chest, and my whole body began to shake with long racking sobs. "Mr. Milford?" Mr. Harisson called. Tears began to dampen the pillows beneath my head. "I-" I mumbled, my voice hoarse. Mr. Butch stood beside me, holding the syringe filled with a lethal dose. He bowed and closed his eyes. "Mr. Milford, your last statement?" asked Mr. Harisson, his voice carried an air of finality. I thought of my father, the moment I slit his throat, my mom, when she turned her back from us, my sister when she sat blank on the hospital bed. I thought of the years I wasted, of the life I buried, of the crimes I made. As I stared back at Mr. Harisson, I knew what my last statement was.

END.