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

it happened, and I don’t even remember if it was sudden or gradual. Somehow the change just crept up on me like a wolf on tiptoe. Hell, I don’t even remember when I first started to
notice
it. What I
do
remember is how when I was a kid every single day seemed to last for an eternity. Time was as long and drawn-out as a politician’s speech. I swear to God that I can remember a single summer day that lasted for several months. I was a sweaty boy with no shirt, sitting on my grandmother’s front porch while the gnats dreamily circled me. The days were so long that my young mind couldn’t conceive of a block of time that would make up an entire week. There had been summer, shorts, crew cuts, and Popsicles ever since the Big Bang, and only a fool thought it would ever end.
    Then one day I turned around and realized that entire years were slipping through my hands like water. Youth had been stolen from me while my back was turned. It’s still happening now. It seems like no sooner does the sun rise than it’s already setting again. Now I watch while years flip by like an exhalation, and sometimes I feel panic trying to claw its way up into my throat. Time itself has become a cruel race toward an ash-colored sunset. It opens doorways to disease and leaves me empty-handed. I truly don’t understand how it happened. How it
continues
to happen. Even looking directly at it doesn’t change anything, no matter what the old people say about watched pots never boiling. Forever can be measured with a ruler, and eternity is no longer than a stiff breeze.
    God, I miss the sound of cicadas singing. I used to sit on my front porch and listen to those invisible hordes all screaming in the trees like green lunacy. The only place I hear them now is on television. I’ve seen live newscasts where I could hear them screeching in the background. When I realized what it was I was hearing I nearly fell to my knees, sobbing and screaming a denial to everything I’ve lost, everything that’s been stolen from me. It’s a powerful sound—the sound home would make if it weren’t a silent eternity away from me.
    Hearing the cicadas is like being stabbed through the heart with blades of ice. They remind me that life has continued for the world while I’ve been sealed away in a concrete vault. I’ve been awakened on many nights by the feel of rats crawling over my body, but I’ve never heard summer’s green singing. The last time I heard it, I had yet to see my twentieth birthday.
    People in places like West Memphis don’t like
anything
that stands out, including intelligence and beauty. If a woman is smart enough to take care of her body so that she doesn’t become a sexless lump, she will get looks of hatred from the local women. They will cast the evil eye at her as they help themselves to another plate of biscuits and fried pork chops. If a man is a little too intelligent for the taste of the locals, he will soon find himself ostracized. Most don’t have either the self-discipline or the self-respect to better themselves, and they despise anyone who does, because it makes them feel small and inadequate. Unless you want to be the target of resentment you have to keep your head down and shuffle your feet along with the rest of the herd. The one thing above all else that is not tolerated is magick. Any trace of wonder or magick must be snuffed out at all costs. Then instead of mourning its loss, they’ll pat themselves on the back. Nothing can be mundane enough to suit the herd. Bland country faces in bland country places.
    When I was a kid, somehow a story started circulating in West Memphis. I can only guess at its origin, but something about it horrified me. In fact, the whole town was pretty on edge. People were claiming to have seen a dog with a man’s head. It was rumored to have escaped from a traveling carnival freak show that had come through the area. A preacher swore that he spotted it looking through a window of his house. Neighbors stood on their lawns in the evening with the same facial expressions they wore when scanning the skies for tornadoes. “Get back in the house,” they would snap at the children who were drawn out by the hovering sense of excitement. I’m certain I wasn’t the only one who began having bad dreams about the dogman.
    Eventually people seemed to forget about it, and it faded from the conversations. The
feeling
never left, though. A vague atmosphere of dread and dangerous fear seemed to