Life After Death: The Shocking True Story of a Innocent Man on Death Row

sit in this cell now, filling someone else’s place. It is a murderer who should be here, not me. I often wonder if this mistake was made deliberately, by those who have something to hide. Other times I wonder if it’s for some great and secret purpose known only to a power much higher than myself. But I believe the most important question of all is what will it take to set things right? What will it take to restore my life to its right track and clockwork precision? Is it already happening?
    I come from a line of men with no fathers. I have no paternal traditions to pass on to my own offspring, and can count the number of times I’ve seen my son on one hand. They say that blood calls to blood, but I have thirty-two years of doubt and no contradiction. No one was there to teach me how to knot a necktie or explain the mechanics of sex. I had to learn on the run, wherever I could. My own son doesn’t even know me. All he has is a handful of someone else’s dusty memories, most of which aren’t even accurate.
    There are long stretches of time that fly by so quietly that another year has crept up on you before you realize it. The year can feel as oily as the steel of a gun barrel. Other times the stress comes in and floods out everything. It steals your sleep and your clarity of mind. Consciousness becomes a mental misery that takes a toll on the body. All the worldly concerns drop in to introduce themselves at a time you least suspect. Hairline fractures trace their way across the skull and settle into a deep throb. There is never enough time, patience, money, or enthusiasm. The pressure is relentless, and I twist in the wind like a sheet on a clothesline. The constantly shifting strategy wears me down and tires me out. The cycle is endlessly repetitive and I have no distractions. Matters of life and death are no more than afterthoughts to the cogs that turn the wheels. I keep feeling that if I could only get one break, then I could find a way to get ahead. It never comes. I am at the end of my rope.
    Last night I dreamed that a bunch of rednecks burned me at the stake in a Walmart parking lot. Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. I was still conscious after I became smoke, and it felt good to spiral in the air. I didn’t just float around the way smoke tends to. I flew quickly, and with a purpose. I was following someone, but can’t remember who or why. I only remember watching them cross a gray winter field from a great distance as I formed a giant white spiral in the sky. I felt free and strong, vibrating with purpose. Sometimes we forget the raw power of that feeling when we leave the purity of youth behind. I recognized and remembered it in the dream. When I awakened, it lingered like an aftertaste.
    In my best dreams I always run on all fours, like an animal. I still have the same body, but I travel like a quadruped. I’ll be running and suddenly realize that I can move much faster if I use my hands. I lean forward just enough to get my hands on the ground and then use all four limbs to thrust myself forward like a rabbit, a cheetah, or a deer. It’s a feeling of absolute freedom and power. These dreams feel ten times better than the few dreams I’ve had in which I can fly. I’ve had these running dreams for as long as I can remember, and it’s always seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Someone once told me that in these dreams I am becoming my totem animal, that I am taking the form of my spirit guide, and that it probably has something to do with my Native American bloodline. The only flaw in that theory is that when I see myself in these dreams I don’t look like any animal. I look like myself, only running faster than any human ever could.
    The trauma of living circles me like a pack of wolves. It waits for the exhaustion to drive me to my knees so that it can devour me at leisure. It lingers over my bones, taking pride in its ghoulish feast. When life eats you, it always starts with your heart.
    I’ve always sneered at weakness, and at those who need a painkiller to make it through the day. My sneers were caused by false pride. The only thing strong about me is the grip I have on my masks and delusions. Now all I feel is surgery without the anesthetic. All that I know is fear, and I can’t find my way out.
    I have a new next-door neighbor. He hasn’t slept in several days. He paces his cell throughout the night, arguing with himself in several voices. One is a