II
You stare at the grey concrete walls that are littered with dirt and grime, with bloodstains at the corner. You suspect many fights have occurred here, or the previous inmate was a suicidal one. Your eyes are glassy orbs, for they have no focus. No focus in life, no focus in anything. Everything seems like mere shapes to you. The walls that enclose you form a cuboid, blocking you from going out and anyone from coming in. The measly mattress at the corner of the cell appears as a yellowing rectangle, not something for you to sleep on. The metal water bowls look like cold, bottomless cylinders, not for you to wash your face with. The oval mirror seems reflection-less, for when you gaze upon it, you see nothing. Just the silhouette of a has-been, a used-to, and a never-wanted. She never wanted you. The more you yearned for her, the more she pulled back. It was as if you were trying to axe into her stone-cold heart, caged by the bars that engulf it. Unlike the bars in your cell that block your exit, these bars prevented you from entering. Right now, you lie on the rectangle that they call your bed. The ceiling fan blades look like sharp triangles, slicing the floating air with such aggression that it creates wind. They remind you of the whetted knives you used to end your beloved’s life. The stabbing motion you adopted was not unlike that of a ceiling fan – swift and silent. The fact that she refused your love, repeatedly, infuriated you, for you always got whatever you wanted. You hated that you loved her and she never loved you back. The hate drove you to a corner that one dusky night, where you crept through her square windows, her tall, angular, plaster walls, creaked open her bedroom door, and drew out your diamond-like knife. This supposed repose in the cell is temporary. The guard arrives. He unlocks the heavy metal padlock and beckons you to follow him down the corridor. He does it with such nonchalance, almost as if he already got bored of mocking the other numerous inmates before you on their death days. You walk down the corridor, which is flickering from the faulty light bulbs, as the other inmates peer out from their own cube-shaped cells, cocking their heads to the side at a queer angle, scrutinizing you. Your footsteps are heavy but your head feels light. The guard brings you to another cuboid-like room and an empty, metal chair is situated right in the middle. Several officials cast wary glances at you, as if they expect you to suddenly make a quick escape. What they do not know is that you accept the consequences of your actions. Dying means that you will join her, somewhere out there, some place unknown but you know deep in the recesses of your mind that you will be with her. That is the big idea of the plan. You do not believe in the after-life, but you believe in love after life. The guard guides you to the chair and aids you with the fastening of the copper coils and restraints. The machine connected to it whirs to life. The chorus chattering by the officials dies down as they turn their heads stoically to observe how you are going to die, just like they have done so for many others whose turns were before yours. Their indifference is somewhat comforting. This is the last 30 seconds of your life. 30. A semblance of your family, at least what you remember of, flashes through your eyes. 20. You think of the very first day you met her. 10. Her pale, motionless face, still beautiful, yet so fragile and porcelain-like. Her slackened jaw, her expressionless eyes boring deep into your soul. Electricity courses through your veins, its volts creeping through your skin. It causes you to shake violently within the premise of the chair. Your witnesses do not care; they have seen this too many times. You shut your eyes for the last time and think of her, and the future you will have with her. You will be safe. | 
