by Happy writer

Created on: August 15, 2008

I was told that I was sitting on the patio sofa with glazed unresponsive eyes smoking a cigarette when the paramedics came... this I do not remember. I was told that I was soaked, my hair disheveled with blood running down from the scratches on my arms...this I do not remember either. I was asked what happened and for a moment I almost forgot but I knew, I knew what I had done. I said nothing. My tongue was tied but my head was screaming.

I have been on death row for almost three years now. It is only constant reminding by others that makes me aware of this. My time keeping stopped the day Sara died. Time does not belong to me anymore. It matters only for those who are in the land of the living. I am sandwiched in an interstice between the living and the dead, yet I am still here. I wish I wasn't. Oh God I wish I wasn't, I am a coward, but not today.

An appeal date has been set, my lawyer believes my case is strong and that I have the publics sympathy. My husband Don and daughter Jesse can't wait to get me home...Home...I don't belong there anymore, maybe I never did. But I want to be with them, I ache to be with them. They are all that is left of me, the reason I still breath. I am so deeply ashamed that I could and did not keep it together...Why could I just not keep it together?

There is comfort in my surroundings. The heaviness of my cell cocoons me, keeps me from myself. When Sara was a baby they thought that if she wore a leaded jacket it would help her feel more grounded, take away that scary free falling fear she had with the outside world. It would center her somewhat. I feel this with my cell. The strangest thing is, now that I am here, I understand Sara. I have finally gained access into her world of one. Not only do I now hear the voices that tormented her mind, I understand their language.

My cell is freshly painted white with a small stainless steel toilet and sink. Apart from my cot, the only other object in here is a large container for my belongings. I have no window. My window is my cell door. Although the bars obstruct my view they bring me support. It is the space between the vertical and horizontal lines I count to calm me down when my mind starts spinning. They remind me of tartan, the kind of graphic I would have doodled up and filled in whilst on the phone. I don't feel for this space but most of the time I don't feel at all. I am like a broken windmill, with the sails ripped off, I still stand but I do not function. The stone cold floor

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