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

a thing, but I can’t bring myself to wash it off. Since they executed him, it’s the only trace of him left. He’s been in his grave almost five years now, yet his shadow still lingers. He was no one and nothing. All that remains of him is a handful of old rape charges and a man-shaped pencil sketch. Perhaps it’s just superstition, but I can’t help but feel that erasing it would be like erasing the fact that he ever existed. That may not be such a bad thing, all things considered, but I won’t be the one to do it.
    At one point I entertained thoughts that perhaps the living inmates weren’t the only ones trapped on Death Row. After all, if places really are haunted, then wouldn’t Death Row be the perfect stomping ground? At some time or another it’s crossed the mind of everyone here. Some make jokes about it, like whistling to yourself as you pass the cemetery. Others don’t like to speak about it at all, and it can be a touchy subject. Who wants to think about the fact that you’re sleeping on the mattress that three or four executed men also claimed as their resting place? Imagine looking into the mirror every day and wondering how many dead men had looked at their own reflections in it. When anything odd happens, some men blame whoever was executed last.
    Once for a period of several months at Tucker Max, I had the privilege of having an entire floor of the Death Row barracks to myself. Recent executions had opened up cells on the first two floors, so the guards thought it a good idea to move people from the third floor down to the first and second, to fill the empty slots. They were hoping to be able to get out of walking up to the third floor altogether. The problem was that they were one short, so I was the only one to be left up there with another seventeen empty cells.
    There were a lot of benefits to the situation, so I didn’t complain. For one thing, I had a television all to myself. No arguing about what to watch. I also had my own phone, and no longer had to wait for anyone else to get off it. There was no one above me to stomp on the floor and annoy me, and no one next to me. I could sit in meditation for as long as I liked without fear of interruption. I was up high enough in the air that I could look out of my slit of a window and see a field of horses. I used to watch them playing for hours at a time. Even better than the horses was the field itself, especially when it snowed during the winter. Looking at that snowy field and a ring of leafless, gray trees made my heart ache like you can’t believe. Nothing makes me wail with heartache and homesickness more than the winter. Sometimes the cold wind feels like it’s blowing right through a hole in my chest. It hurts, folks. It hurts like hell and reminds me of how long I’ve been here.
    I did have a tiny cellmate for a short time—a little white-haired, blue-eyed kitten. I don’t believe she was even old enough to be away from her mother yet, as you could cradle her in the palm of one hand. I’ve absolutely no idea where she originally came from or where she eventually went, but she was being passed around so the guards wouldn’t find her. When it was time for her to be passed on she’d be placed in a stocking cap and sent down the line.
    The kitty didn’t seem to want to do anything but sleep. The problem was that she was much like a fussy baby and wanted to be held as she slept. She would lie on your chest, curled into a small white ball, and sleep forever. The moment you put her down, the tiny blue eyes would pop open and she would begin to give voice to her outrage. Tiny but high-pitched meows could soon be heard from a considerable distance. It was amazing that such a minuscule creature could be heard from so far away. Perhaps it was the fact that the sound was so alien to the environment. No amount of talk would console her. “Shhh! Hush, you little monster, or they shall discover our plot.” She paid no heed to my warnings.
    Her only other fault was that a steady diet of tuna and milk caused her to leave long, brown kitty puddles on the floor. She knew herself to be the queen of Death Row and had no doubt that it was my honor and privilege to clean up after her. Once my tour of duty came to an end she went on to her next residence and I never saw her again.
    The kitten wasn’t the only pet to ever be kept on Death Row. The most common are mice and rats, but I’ve also seen spiders, a couple snakes, and even a bird.