The Last 24

8:57 PM

Within the cramped confines of my cell, I stood silently - a sentinel of misery and despair. For 23 long years, this had been my abode, devoid of any luxury or comfort. The roaches and mice that skittered around me were the only semblance of company I had. In the dark corners of my mind, I wondered if they were descendants of those that had greeted me on my first day.

As the day of my impending execution drew near, I found myself unable to sit still. The meager possessions that remained, a final remnant of my worldly existence, were now gone, bestowed upon those who still had a life to live.

My eyes fixated on the looming, black and white analog clock, encased within a rusted metal guard bolted onto the cold, stone wall. It was the only source of time in this desolate place, and every tick felt like a death sentence. The seconds oozed by, sluggish and never-ending, as though mocking my misery. I knew I should be thankful for the structured routine of prison life, but every moment felt like a cruel reminder of my captivity.

As the clock neared its ominous countdown, my heart began to race, and a chill ran down my spine. The last few seconds felt like an eternity, and each tick felt like a hammer pounding. :58, :59, and then, as if on cue, the hour struck. The clock's chime echoed throughout the cellblock, a haunting reminder of my impending doom.

Suddenly, my attention was pulled away from the clock as the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. My heart sank as three guards appeared before me, their eyes cold and unforgiving. With a single glance, they signaled the beginning of my watch, and I knew there was no escape from the fate that awaited me.

9:00 PM

The two guards inside my cell searched me thoroughly, their eyes scanning every inch of my body for any potential weapon. They were concerned for their own safety, of course, but their main fear was that I might harm myself before the state could do it for me. Once they were satisfied, they shackled me at the hands and feet before leading me, in my dark teal jumpsuit, out of the cell. Three more guards, including a woman, were waiting to escort me out of the wing. The tension in the air was palpable, and their stern faces betrayed the gravity of the situation.

"JDR is being loaded into the van now," the head officer announced over his radio.

"Confirmed. JDR begin transit, Route C," came the reply on the radio.

During the last 24 hours on death row, a prisoner was moved from the death row wing to the death house, a separate location. High-profile cases that involved the death penalty always stirred up the masses, and this made the final transit an intense, high-alert event. As I was led away, it dawned on me that this would be the last time I would ever see the outside of a building. The weight of the inevitable was crushing, and the air felt thick with foreboding.

The van ride was deathly quiet, the only sound the haunting creaks of the vehicle as it bounced down the lonely road. Five guards were present, their tension palpable and suffocating. Two unmarked officers drove ahead, behind, and periodically parked along the route, with their sirens and lights off, in an attempt to draw as little attention to the convoy as possible. Every second, the inevitability of the past 23 years bore down on me, like an unbearable weight crushing my chest.

As we arrived at a foreboding, square, two-story building, fenced in like a prison, the immense tension in the van began to fade. It was nighttime, and although I longed for the warmth of the sun one last time, the cloudless sky, bright stars, and full moon provided a suitable alternative. I gazed up for as long as I could, the steps to my fate passing quickly beneath my feet.

Walking down an eerie, silent wing, I was surrounded by five guards. Motion-censored lights cascaded through the empty corridor, making my heart race with each step. The cell I was placed in was larger than the death row cell, containing a desk, a bed, a toilet, and a washing tank above it. As my shackles were released, the sound of the cell door closing had an ominous, finality about it.

Now on the death watch, a prison guard and a police Sargent would remain with me until the moment of my demise. This was not to prevent an escape, but rather to prevent any attempts at taking my own life before they could do it for me. Although the thought of ending it all had crossed my mind, a part of me still clung to the hope of innocence and the chance to right my wrongs. The guilty side of me had long accepted my fate.

I was given two sets of clothes, one to relax in tonight and the other to wear on my final journey. To an outsider, this may seem like a trivial detail, but after 23 years without wearing actual clothes, it felt like a fleeting slice of freedom. A paper pad, pencil, and a couple of forms were also given to me, to be filled out for my final day. One form listed any phone calls I would like to make tomorrow, while the other was for my infamous last meal. Unlike other death houses, where inmates are fed the standard prison fare, this Death House was different. Common reason was the only limit to my final request.

The night had arrived, but sleep was a distant memory. The small desk in my cell was my only companion as I penned letters to every person I had ever known. My three children and their mother were on the list, but their silence was deafening. They knew of my existence, but another man had taken my place as their father. It was a twisted mercy, sparing them from the curse of my mistakes. My pen scratched away as I dwelled on the sins of my past.

In the dead of night, I had convinced myself that I was ready for what was to come. 23 years on death row had allowed me ample time to prepare. All appeals had been exhausted, desperation set in. Death was knocking at my door, but I was not ready. I could not leave this world as the man I had been. Shortcomings needed to be fixed, and amends made to those I had irreparably harmed. The weight of all that remained undone threatened to consume me.

Desperate dreams, indeed. Fate had finally made its presence known at my doorstep.

2:00 AM.

The world outside was silent, but within the confines of my cell, my heart hammered against my chest. Anxiety was a constant companion, threatening to rob me of my last breath. The sterile walls offered no solace, unlike my previous cell teeming with critters. Here, the silence was more ominous than any infestation. The bars covering the walls and door evoked images of a bygone era. The phone hung ominously on the wall outside my cell, while the common area was more for the guards than for a prisoner. The soft snores of my watchmen offered a strange comfort, a reprieve from the solitude that enveloped me.

The irony was not lost on me; they were watching me as I awaited my final fate. Yet, I held no malice towards them. The weight of their responsibilities and the looming threat of my end was a burden too heavy for anyone to bear. The suspense was palpable, and the ominous tone hung heavy in the air. The anxiety I felt had spread, infecting every inch of my cell. Death was coming for me, and there was no escape.

4:30 AM

The day began with breakfast. As requested plain pancakes with a side of fresh fruit. The day seemed to start moving fast. It was a feeling of relief, if relief could be piled on with anxiety. New guards on death watch came in, and began to roughly pat me down for weapons. Strange, but control is something you give up pretty early on in prison, then one of the guards landed a hard uppercut to my rib cage dropping me to my knees.

"Get up you woman killing piece of shit.", He said.

The other guard looked at him with a little anger, but mostly confusion. They pulled me to my feet, and pushed me out the cell door. He most likely broke my rib, but the looming death almost made me feel grateful to feel the pain. I was escorted to the showers where I was supposed to be granted 15 mins to clean myself for the final time. The guard with a grudge decided I was done after five, and with a lower half still covered in soap. I put on the last clothes I'd ever wear, and it felt surprisingly good to wear jeans and a tee shirt for the first time in over two decades.

7:30 AM

As the guard dialed the first number on my list of phone calls, my heart raced with fear and anticipation. I waited anxiously, hoping my son Joshua would answer. After a few rings, I heard his voice, angry and bitter.

"What do you want? And I'm not your son, I'll never be your son," he spat.

Tears filled my eyes as I struggled to find the right words to say. "I just wanted to tell you... I wanted to tell you that-"

"Let me stop you right there," he interrupted. "These calls have to stop. You are a dark stain on our lives, and it's best if you just sever contact."

My heart sank as I realized that I had lost my only chance to speak with my son. The rest of the phone calls went unanswered, and I knew that my family had been warned not to answer. Joshua was the only one I thought might answer, the only one I had been able to form a bond with before my incarceration.

9:30 AM

I paced back and forth in my cell, the weight of my impending death heavy on my mind. The prison warden and chaplain arrived, and the warden introduced me to Father Patronage.

"We will be with you till the end. Father Patronage will assist you with any spiritual matters you might like to address. As far as me, I'll be here to try to make this go as smoothly as it can. Anyway that I could help you with that just let me know. We will never be far away," the warden assured me.

Father Patronage joined me inside my cell, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease in his presence. I asked him if he was aware of my crimes, and he nodded solemnly.

"I have prayed for your soul for many days now," he said.

I was surprised by his calmness and lack of fear. "Are you comfortable sitting inside this cell with me right now? After what you know?" I asked.

Father Patronage chuckled and feigned running for the door before sitting back down. "Do I have a reason to be fearful?" he asked.

I took a deep breath and decided to open up to him. "Well, it began, and ended with drugs. I was heavy on meth then, and anything else I could get my hands on. I was what the kids on the street would call a full-fledged dope fiend. Drugs can make you do crazy things when you're in withdrawal."

Father Patronage listened intently as I spoke, and I felt a sense of relief in finally being able to share my story with someone. But then, a question began to gnaw at me.

"Can you be forgiven, if you don't remember doing what you did? I always heard, to be forgiven for your sins you have to truly repent. If I can't remember then how can I be forgiven?" I asked, my voice filled with desperation.

Father Patronage's expression softened, and he placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Repentance is not just about remembering your sins, John. It's about acknowledging them and accepting responsibility for your actions. God is merciful, and He will forgive those who truly seek His forgiveness," he said.

4:30 PM

As I opened my eyes, I was greeted by the harsh fluorescent light of my prison cell. The reality of my impending execution set in, and the weight of it all bore down on me. I couldn't help but feel like a trapped animal, ready to meet its fate at the hands of merciless hunters.

The day dragged on, each passing minute felt like a lifetime. As the hours ticked by, I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease in the pit of my stomach. My mind was racing with thoughts of what was to come. Was I really ready to face my maker and pay for my sins?

My thoughts were interrupted by the guard as he brought me my final meal. A sad excuse for a feast, but it would be my last. I stared blankly at the plate in front of me, trying to conjure up an appetite, but my stomach churned at the thought of what was to come.

I ordered a steak, but when I saw it, it was dry and overcooked, charred to a crisp. The mashed potatoes were cold and lumpy, and the green beans looked as if they had been sitting in the sun for too long. I forced myself to eat, knowing that it would be my last chance to savor the taste of real food. But the bitterness in my heart made everything taste like ash.

5:30 PM

As I finished my meal, the guard handed me a diaper, and I recoiled in disgust. I was to wear this during my execution, a reminder of my final indignity. The guard looked on with a twisted grin, relishing in my shame.

But the real humiliation came when I was forced to change into the diaper in front of a female guard. She watched me with a cold detachment as I stripped off my clothes, exposing my vulnerable body. The shame burned hot in my cheeks as I fumbled with the unfamiliar garment, struggling to fasten it in place. The warden and the chaplain looked on, their faces impassive, but I could feel their judgment and disgust. They had become my judge and jury, and my every move was being scrutinized. The weight of their gaze made me feel like a mere insect, crushed beneath their cold indifference.

8:45 PM

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I take my final steps down the long, cold hallway. The echoes of my footsteps resonate through the silence, punctuated only by the occasional shuffle of the guards' boots beside me. I know that this is the end, that there is no turning back, and the weight of my sins feels like an anchor dragging me down to the depths of hell.

We finally reach the end of the corridor, and I am led into a sterile room that smells of antiseptic and death. The table looms before me like a specter, cold and unforgiving, and I shudder at the sight of the straps that will soon bind me to it. The guards and prison staff circle around me like vultures, watching my every move with cold, emotionless eyes.

The chaplain approaches me, and his voice is a low, somber drone as he begins to recite the last rites. I try to focus on his words, to find some comfort in the ritual, but all I can think about is the fact that this is it. The end. I have no more chances to make things right, no more opportunities for redemption. All that's left for me now is the punishment for my crimes.

When the chaplain finishes, he asks if I have any last words. I open my mouth, but the words refuse to come. What could I say? There is nothing that could possibly justify what I have done, no words that could ease the pain of those I have hurt. So I shake my head, and the guards move in to strap me down.

The straps feel like a vice on my skin, cutting off my circulation and making it hard to breathe. I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead, my heart hammering in my chest as I realize that this is it. The end of the line. The countdown to my own death.

9:00 PM

"John David Rutledge, for the heinous premeditated murder of twelve females, by the power invested in me by this great state, I sentence you to death by lethal injection."

The machines began to beep, and then the drugs begin to flow into my veins, a cold rush that spreads through my body like liquid fire. My vision blurs, and my thoughts become disjointed, as the poison slowly shuts down my vital organs one by one. I try to fight it, to cling to life for just a few more precious moments, but it's no use. The darkness is closing in around me, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

As my life came to an end, my past deeds flooded my mind. I saw the good I had done, but my final vision was of the haunting faces of the 12 women I had killed. In that moment, I felt the pain I had inflicted on them and their loved ones as if it was my own. I knew then with complete certainty that I had a new fate. I was destined for an eternity in hell.