The Chaplain thinks the inmates seem strangely awake and alert, not a tired bone in their bodies. He walks beside the Prisoner. Corrections Officer 1 and Corrections Officer 2, their numbers blazing on their shirts, walk behind them. CO 1 has removed the prisoner’s handcuffs, a small act of mercy, but he keeps his hand on his gun. The Prisoner walks at a leisurely pace, as if he’s got all the time inthe world. The Chaplain keeps pace with him, but the COs shuffle awkwardly, not used to moving so slowly. No one on Death Row is allowed a name. Not the Warden, the Chaplain, the Prisoner or the Correction Officers. Take away your name, the Chaplain thinks, and you are nothing. You are no one.

The Prisoner is wearing regular clothes – work pants, a plain black t-shirt, canvas shoes. He is allowed work clothes for the occasion. No more white jumpsuit. Before the Chaplain arrived, the Prisoner was fingerprinted and allowed a shower. His hair is damp. He did not shave and the Chaplain notes the stubble on his face. The other inmates, hundreds of them, rows upon rows of caged men, shout as the group walks past. War cries. Wailing. Howling anger. They bang their bars with whatever they have handy, and the noise rains down upon them – the Chaplain and the Prisoner and the COs – like a sudden hurricane. It swirls around them. The Prisoner looks up at the chaos, and he lifts his hand slightly as if to wave goodbye. CO 1 shouts, “Hands at your sides, Prisoner!” He has been segregated from the general prison population for his entire stay here, for the 10 years since he was sentenced to death, the 10 years of appeal after appeal, and yet these other men, these strangers, these banging, shouting men, feel a solidarity with him tonight.

The Chaplain marvels. Even caged, they perform a ritual to show support for their fellow man. The COs brought him out at midnight hoping to avoid this. Hoping most of the other inmates would be asleep. But word travels fast – an execution is coming – and they wait to see the last of the Prisoner, bursting at the seams. Furious at the system. Adrenalin junkies high with excitement. The Chaplain can feel them. He can smell them, and it’s not the smell of sweat or body odour. It’s the smell of fear and rage. A sour, sickly smell. The noise reminds the Chaplain of the soccer stadium, the games he watched in university, the gleeful anger of the masses, howling and chanting and sharing in the sport. He remembers Tracy then, as well. Of course he does. Before everything he did to her, when they were happy. Whenever he thinks of the past he can’t get away from thinking about Tracy. He remembers the way she was before he did what he did. Before he hurt her. And then he remembers her after.

What happened between them is getting farther away now, getting more and more distant. But it’s still there. At those soccer games, he remembers not paying attention to her. He was mesmerized by the sound around him, focused on everything else. As usual. She always tried to get his attention, talking, smiling, pointing things out, but inevitably left the game and went home by herself, back to their shared apartment to read a book. Whenever he thinks back to his time with Tracy, the Chaplain recalls not paying attention. And he’s doing this now. His focus on the prisoner is shifting quickly. Has he not learned anything from before, from losing Tracy? Today he wants to pay attention. He has promised himself he will. To the Prisoner. To the moment. To the last few hours of this man’s life. The other inmates shout and rattle their bars, as the Prisoner walks towards the death chamber. His last walk. The Chaplain reminds himself to pay attention. Even after his promise to stay present in the moment, he has failed already. Thinking of soccer, of Tracy.

Pay attention. He figured it out yesterday after he met the Prisoner for the first time. How many minutes, how many seconds. There are 720 minutes in twelve hours and 43,200 seconds. He looks at his watch. It is 12:06. Six minutes gone already, 360 seconds. The Prisoner is to be executed at noon. On his way to the prison, before the Warden gave his lecture on not trying to “save” the Prisoner, the Chaplain stopped and bought a coffee at the all-night variety store. The clerk was startled to see him there so late at night. There were three other men in the store. One customer was buying a lottery ticket and cigarettes. Another was buying milk and diapers, and the third was looking at the adult magazines, pulling out the centerfolds. The Chaplain bought his coffee and thought about how many seconds people waste shopping for diapers and milk and cigarettes and lottery tickets and porn. How many seconds does it take to stir his coffee and then throw out the stir stick and get back in his car and turn on the engine?

How many seconds does it take to drive to the prison, the windshield wipers slapping, a summer storm hailing down upon him, the Chaplain cold and distracted from his dream of the seagull and the arrow. The black feeling that lasted until he stepped into the Warden’s office. How many minutes wasted on a dark feeling? On a dream?

“Don’t let him talk you into saving him,” the Warden had said.

“I mean, shit, you’re supposed to ‘save’ him.” The Warden used air quotes as he said it.

“Like religiously and all. You’re the chaplain, but I mean, don’t think you can save him in the real way. You know what I mean? It’s not possible. You know that. Right? The execution is going ahead.”

The Warden is aware of his past, the Chaplain knows this.

He had to be made aware of it in order to hire him. The Chaplain still cringes at the memory of meeting the Warden for the first time. He had said, “Funny that you’d end up in prison anyway, even when the judge let you off.” The Warden has never mentioned any details, never really come out with what he might know, but the Chaplain feels it lingering there in everything he says. The Warden toys with him, plays with his feelings, makes him ashamed and provokes the anger still within him.
The Chaplain has worked hard the last several years to rid himself of all these feelings, to tone down the surging swell, to make himself more worthy of what he has become, of his calling, yet the Warden has a way of making the hair on his arms bristle.

It’s almost as if the Warden wants him to fail, to satisfy his ridiculous certainty that everyone in prison is here for a good reason. That no one could make a mistake, or no one’s circumstances could put them here. Or that someone could take the blame for someone else.
The Warden is convinced that once guilty you are always guilty. Because the Chaplain destroyed Tracy, because he let his anger get the better of him, the Warden thinks he deserves to be locked up. “I will save him.” The Chaplain had said, fingers up. “But I won’t “save” him.” Soon they have walked through too many heavy, metal doors to hear the shouting of the inmates and now the only sound is the footsteps of the COs and the Chaplain and the Prisoner.
Heavy footsteps. Two in boots, one in slip on dress shoes and the Prisoner in slip on canvas running shoes. No laces.

The Prisoner swings his arms, casually, freely. The Chaplain can feel CO 1 and CO 2 tense behind them, ready for trouble. But the Prisoner acts as if he’s heading out to a club, going for a late night drink with friends. He even has a shy, sly smile on his boyish face. But the Prisoner’s eyes are deeply circled, black holes. This is a man who doesn’t sleep no matter how much he smiles. The Chaplain wonders about Death Row Phenomenon. Men go crazy from years in solitary. Perhaps the Prisoner has already broken through this reality and is there now, on the other side. The Chaplain’s primary job, he thinks, is to keep the Prisoner here, in the real world, in the present. His job must be to make sure the Prisoner doesn’t stray into that other realm. A man might not go gentle into that good night, but he might at least go sanely.

“Fucking noise,” CO 2 says softly. “Shouting and banging. Every single fucking time.”

“At least they aren’t flinging their shit,” CO 1 laughs.

The Chaplain clears his throat and both men shut up quickly. Who are you, the Chaplain wants to say, to complain about anything? The Corrections Officers often forget he is there. The Chaplain thinks that it’s because he is young. They are used to older chaplains, greyhaired and milky-eyed. In fact, the Prisoner seemed shocked to see the Chaplain when they first met. No one respects youth. Again, silence and only the sound of their shoes.
The Prisoner’s grin is larger now, toothier, the Chaplain notices, as if he appreciates the COs’ banter. The Chaplain can feel the tension around that grin. A spooky feeling, like when a dog bares its teeth. The tattoo around his neck gives the impression of a collar. “Left here,” CO 2 says. The Chaplain is suddenly distracted by the CO’s title – CO 2. Carbon Dioxide. He thinks of the silliness of it and wonders how often he is teased. “You’re sucking the air out of the room…”

The Prisoner doesn’t turn wide, instead he makes a sudden left and cuts the Chaplain off. They bump shoulders hard. The Prisoner swings his head quickly towards the Chaplain. He is as tall as the Chaplain so their eyes meet squarely. The Prisoner looks as if he’s going to kill him, but then his eyes focus on the terrified eyes of the Chaplain and the Prisoner immediately swings his head back down and stares at the ground. The Chaplain knows that the Correction Officers are armed with truncheons and pepper spray and guns and will keep any danger at bay, but for that one brief moment he felt his insides contract, his heart speed rapidly, his throat seize. The look in the Prisoner’s eyes was enough. This man, the Chaplain reminds himself, is here for a reason.

The room is small. Barely 10 feet by 10 feet. An underground parking space in a condominium building. Concrete walls. The ceiling seems low but the Chaplain realizes that is only because there are no windows. You would think they would let him have a window, a last look out, to see the changing light, the weather. He thinks this oversight is unfair. The floors and walls are thick. The walls are painted green, chipped with age. There is a small rusty sink in the corner and a toilet with no seat beside it. A roll of paper rests on the floor beside the toilet. There is no soap for the sink.
The Chaplain shakes his head. There is a digital clock on the wall, to count down the minutes. There are two chairs and a cot. Blue and green blankets, clean white sheets, the smell of bleach emanating from them. No pillow. The chairs are stiff, side by side. Black. They look out of place, like they should be in a dining room, or a modern living room. They should be in that condominium with the underground concrete parking space.

Although the Chaplain and the Prisoner will spend 12 hours in these chairs they look like an after thought. The door has a small window in it and, at all times, he was told, the COs will be right outside looking in. There will be five COs in each shift, a special, elite squad. Two shifts. The final shift will walk the Prisoner to the death chamber. The Chaplain looks at the window now and yes, they are all there. CO 1 and CO 2 have left. Their duty is over for now. Gone home to wives, babies, children, dogs, a soft bed and an open window. They get their names back the minute they walk out of the prison. They will become human again. CO 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7 look back at him. Numbers on their shirts. No one smiles. Although they didn’t pass it, the Chaplain knows that they are directly beside the execution room. The final chair the Prisoner will sit in – be strapped into – is right next door. It’s an eerie feeling being separated by only a wall. Not every prisoner requests a chaplain. He feels lucky. And also cursed. Sometimes a man’s last twelve hours are spent on the telephone with family. Or alone. Or with the Correction Officers. Watching. Always watching.

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)