I don’t know what this is about.  It is dark.


This cell, it is a cell from within and without.

My walls are smaller than the walls of the cell, my world smaller than the confinement I suffer.

I committed a crime, both in the eyes of man and God, and I have admitted to it.  I have owned it, a possession they cannot take from me however hard they try, and it shall stay with me until the end of my days.

I have no shame for it, no bending of the head, no droop of the shoulders, I have done it and I would do it again a thousand times, and they, the authorities, the baying public, the righteous and the noble; they can only take one thing from me and they will not.

They will not visit upon me what I visited upon my victim, even as they wail and cry and gnash their teeth, they will not bring themselves to do what they argue must be done, but have not the mind or the hand to do.

I know what I did, and I would have done otherwise if I had been earlier, by just a few months.  I would have prevented so much, but I would still do it again.

They look for answers; by therapy, by torture, bribery, persuasion, logic and by simple plea, but I can give them, do give them, nothing.

You’ll know why soon enough.

I am not a great criminal mastermind, not a habitual killer, not crazy.  They would think I was crazy.

If I told them.

I stand by it, I have every faith that I did the right thing, but my cell is smaller than my cell, because of what I did.

They would have done it, time and time again.  And they would have done it devoid of feeling, empathy, without even a scrap of human decency.

I had to do it, for the greater good, and I had nothing but my hands, so it was up close, personal, a sacrifice on an altar, but the altar was my knee.

I did it, and while I am not ashamed, I am…

No, I am ashamed, but I am not remorseful.

And that is my dichotomy, I am ashamed but not remorseful.

Ashamed but not remorseful.

I am more a prisoner of my soul than I am of these very walls, but walls make a good prison too.