He woke up in the morning rather surprised.
He figured his last morning would feel different, but for some reason it didn’t. Prison has that effect on you, though. The last decade of his life seemed like one long day replete with an imminent sense of finality. The only difference this morning was the knowledge that at 11:43 P.M the impending sense of the end would be replaced simply with the end.
He often thought about what he did, and why he did it. No one would ever understand, and he never expected anyone too. He had spent the last 10 years of his miserable life retracing the moments of that night over and over again, but he figured at this point he better try to put it out of his head; after all, he had more important things to consider like what to eat.
The warden had been asking for days now what he wanted for his last meal. He always thought the whole idea of a final dinner was exceedingly glamorized and exaggerated to the point of stupidity. Who cares what you shove in your mouth in the last hour of your life? Didn’t people realize there were better, more substantially affecting ways to spend your final moments of existence?
Fuck it, he wasn’t going to waste time debating between steak or lobster, fries or garlic mash. It was the final decision he would ever make in his life, and he wanted to make it right. He grabbed his prison-issued pencil, and as tears began to hit the parchment he scribbled one final note:
“Warden: No meal, just music. I'd like my final hour set to these songs. Thanks”