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

but there’s no one here to share it with and nothing I can do with it. I’d be happy to pass a stranger on the street and hear them say, “Merry Christmas,” or to be able to say it to them. I want to be bundled up as I walk beneath the slate-colored afternoon sky. I want to sit and look at twinkling trees while sipping eggnog. In the outside world the air would feel like a music box, just like in the old days.
    This is the time of year when it hurts the most to be here. The summer may be a misery to my body, but missing this magick hurts me to my soul.
    December tastes like Hershey’s Kisses. The month of December and those little Hershey’s Kisses candies are connected in a way that I can’t quite articulate. For me, at least. I do know that eating a Hershey’s Kiss is like an act of communion—like taking a tiny taste of December into myself. I don’t like to eat them at other times of the year, because I don’t want that special association to fade.
    Sometimes I think the vast majority of the year is about anticipation for me. The year is the journey, December is the destination. On November 30, I always sit up all night long so that I can greet December as it arrives. I like to meet it at the door, so to speak. And then I stay up all night on December 31, not to see the New Year in, but to savor the last few moments of my favorite month. October and November are really, really good, but December is great.
    My favorite time of year is from December 20 until sunrise on December 25. During that stretch of time I can feel the entire world come to an absolute standstill. On those few days the hair on my neck stands on end, and the world feels like a pendulum that has swung all the way to one side and hangs suspended for a split second before beginning the reverse swing. At sunrise on December 25 the spell is broken and we begin the swing back in the other direction. Those magickal days are gone for another year, and my vigil starts all over again.
    Strangely enough, the song that sounds the most like December is a ballad called “High Enough” by the Damn Yankees. I have a whole list of December songs: “Love Is on the Way” by Saigon Kick, “Don’t Cry” by Guns N’ Roses, “Wait” by White Lion, “House of Pain” by Faster Pussycat, and “Don’t Close Your Eyes” by Kix. That’s the sound track for the month of December. Oh yeah, I forgot one—“Don’t Know What You’ve Got (Till It’s Gone)” by Cinderella. Yes, I still love Cinderella. And yes, I can hear your snorts of disgust. Doesn’t bother me one bit, though. I’m used to it by now, as I even hear it from Lorri.
    When I try to picture heaven, I see a place where it’s always December, every radio station plays hair bands, and every time I check my pockets they’re full of Hershey’s Kisses. There’s a Christmas parade on every street, every day is my birthday, and the sun always sets at 4:58 p.m.
    The inertia is killing me, wearing me out one day at a time. The legal system is content to let me die of old age. If someone doesn’t do something soon there will be nothing left of me to save.
    I woke up this morning to discover a spider on my breakfast tray. It was smashed to a piece of bread. Something about it seemed too malicious to have been an accident. I haven’t felt right all day. Every time that spider pops into my head I feel my stomach lurch again.
    Tonight I separated and saw myself again, just as I did when I was seven years old. Tonight I was the ghost of sixteen. It went so fast that I couldn’t say or do anything. It was just a flicker. I was gasping for breath like a fish pulled from the water and my heart beat like thunder. It’s the fasting that triggered it. I haven’t felt like eating because of the spider. A dead spider has given me the ghost flickers. There is a field between me and the ghost of sixteen. Things wait in that field, unable to cross the line that divides me now from the ghost of me then. Step lively and move with purpose, or the ghosts will swarm all over you. They almost never get the chance to touch us, but they’re always waiting should the chance arrive. They can’t usually even see you unless you ride the ghost flickers. I am moving forward and backward at once. Some part of me is always in the ghost flickers.
    Or the flicker is in me. It’s getting hard to tell. Everything is happening at once, and I can’t pinpoint anything. It’s all too much. The flickers are like