What should I eat… What should I eat…What should I eat… The same question keeps torturing me over and over again. It’s not like ordering food was that hardest thing to do before arriving here. It was always “Pizza!” Or “Chinese food!” Either way, eating the same thing every. single. day. since starting to live here has made it exactly that: the hardest thing to do. I keep thinking how any moment now, the big guy in uniform will arrive and ask me what the hell I want to eat. What do you want to eat, Malcolm? Fuck. I have no idea.
Remember when we used to be kids and our parents curiously asked us what we were going to ask Santa for Christmas? And even though you asked for a million things during the year, when it came down to that moment, your mind just went completely blank? That is me right now. And just like younger me, it feels like this moment is decisive. Crucial… Fatal. You think I’m exaggerating? Bare with me.
It was the hot summer of 68’, exactly seven years ago. I was nineteen -yeah, the age of stupidity at its finest-, hot, skinny, tall and fit. Basically all that socially mattered at the time. Chicks would drool over the thought of kissing me and the guys- well the guys as well, to be honest. I mean, who wouldn’t want to kiss Malcolm Smith? I myself would practice in the mirror and blush. The point is, all that mattered was the stupidly hot Malcolm with his stupidly hot smirk. And well, yes. The booze, drugs, sex and parties as well. Like I said… stupidity at its finest. If someone would’ve told younger me where I’d be in seven years I prolly would’ve laughed my ass off. I still kinda want to.
Well, anyways, back to my story. Young Malcolm’s life wasn’t as perfect as I’ve described it before, and much less as everyone else thought it was. I wouldn’t describe it as euphoric or exotic or thrilling. I’d much rather describe it with the only three words that can strike home: an ugly tragedy. You see, one does not always get to where they are by themselves. Sometimes they get a little help. Wait no, let me rephrase that. Sometimes, someone, gives them a little help.
I don’t wanna start this off with the typical “it was a hot Friday night”, but well, it was hot and it was also Friday. So here we go.
It was a hot, Friday night and I went to the store to buy the booze and you know, all the other shit you’re supposed to buy for a party to actually make it one. The parties we had were never in the same place. Always in a different house or outdoor spot. Though there were two things that I knew for certain about them. Number 1: I always went. Number 2: I knew everybody there. And that’s exactly why, when I saw him, I instantly knew something wasn’t right. So, my plan? Keep an eye on him. But especially… Keep an eye on her. I know, you are wondering who I’m talking about. Let me introduce her to you.
Sylvia Dorchester was the love of my life. It wasn’t attraction, no. I had never felt such feeling in my life. That’s why I knew it right away. It was love. I loved her… I adored her. The only problem was that, of all the girls I had met in my life, she was the only one who didn’t like me. I hadn’t confessed my feelings to her but I knew she didn’t like me, for every-time I was near her, she felt disgusted. Can you guess how that made me feel?
That night I kept seeing how a stranger intensely approached her. Though it made me angry, I had to keep looking after her. I didn’t know if she liked what he was doing, but I did know she was drunk and alone. Bad combination for a girl, if you ask me. After many beers, I couldn’t hold it inside anymore, so I went to the bathroom to take a leak. Maybe that isn’t considered the biggest mistake of all times, but it is the biggest one in my story. When I came back, I couldn’t see her anywhere, and what was worst? I couldn’t see him either. I went crazy looking all over the place for her, but I couldn’t find them. I was losing my shit, pushing everyone who stood on my way aside, making my way through. When I finally made it to the stairs, I ran up the second floor, opening and slamming doors, screaming her name until I finally found them.
He was on top of her, kissing her neck and lifting her dress. They were both still fully dressed, though Sylvia was unconscious. He was going to rape her. I ran towards them and pushed him off her, making him fall to the ground. I grabbed her face gently, as if I were holding the most precious treasure of existence, realizing with relief it was safe. But, remember when I said that sometimes someone fucks you up? Well, this is that part of the story. The last thing I remember is being hit on the head and losing consciousness. When I woke up, the nightmare had started.
When I opened my eyes, I felt dizzy, like I had drank a whole bar. The first thing I saw was him. Crying and crying and crying. Then, I saw Sylvia next to me. She was soaked in red with her beautiful eyes opened, looking lifeless at the ceiling. And last but not least, I saw four police men entering the room with guns, screaming and pointing at everything with their pistols. They handcuffed my hands behind my back and took me with them.
“…the court finds the defendant Malcolm Smith, guilty of rape and murder in the first degree, and is sentenced to death penalty.”
Now you know my story. Here lays Malcolm in bed, at the age of twenty-eight, waiting for his last meal before taking his last breath. Am I guilty? No. Am I still in prison? Yes. Life sucks, doesn’t it? And now all I have left is a miserable last meal. This is what my life has been transformed into. A fucking ugly tragedy. Exaggerating much now? I don’t think so.
“Malcolm.” His voice echoes inside my small cell. “What do you want to eat?” He finally asks.
“It’ll be a pizza for me.” I say without hesitation, just like when I was a kid. Just like I used to tell mama.
They do give me my pizza, I’ll give them that. It is a nice, round, big and smelly one. It smells like home. It looks like home. It tastes like home, too. I make that moment last forever. I wish my mama could be here with me. I eat every piece like it it is my last, until it eventually is. Hell, what now? I gently place the last slice on the cardboard box. I won’t finish the pizza, no. That way it will be like this moment can last forever. It will never be over, because I never ate the last slice.
They take me there. I have seen my inmates being brought here many times before. They never come back, of course. But every time they left, after a few minutes it started smelling… different. Just like it smells when I step inside the room. It’s a suffocating place and a wooden chair lays still in the middle, waiting for me. The man drag me there, and I obediently sit down. I’m not fighting them. What for? Nobody can escape from their fate. They tie me up and put something on my head. Then, they leave the room and close the door. From where I’m sitting, I can see a big glass in front of me from where I imagine they control the chair. A few seconds pass and the door behind the glass opens, letting the men in.
“Something you’d like to say before we start?” One of them says.
Actually, I do.
Dear reader:
I’m just fucking with you.
Things aren’t actually like that.
The way it all went down that night? I just told you the story I presented to the court. The “stranger’s” real name is Malcolm fucking Smith and he was the bitch’s boyfriend- I mean Sylvia. My name is Dean Mann and I am the actual stranger in the story.
That summer night I was the one trying to approach Sylvia, but Malcolm wouldn’t let me. So I did what had to be done, ya follow? I knew she was too drunk, so she didn’t have much option when I took her upstairs. But then the fucking asshole showed up again and pushed me to the floor. He did that. To me. After that, I hit him in the head. Then I started making love to Sylvia. When I was about to finish, I felt dizzy- I had been drinking too much. I was going to pass out but Sylvia woke up and started screaming. You must know the rest, don’t you?
All I did in court was lie. I didn’t say I was Malcolm Smith like in here, no. I’m not that fucking stupid. That part of the story was merely intended to play with your head.
I guess altering the order of the factors really doesn’t alter the final product, does it? I was sentenced to die anyway. And, at the end of the day, lies always come to light. But, do I regret what I did? Well, reader, what do you fucking think?
“Yes I do, officer.” I say, head up, smile on my face. “I murdered and raped Sylvia Dorchester.”
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