Zombie

Stateville Correctional Center                      Matthew Davis                      www.hopeforinmates.com

          February 29, 2004 is a day I will never forget.

          February 29, 2004… The day I died.

          I suppose my death could be called a suicide. I prefer accidental overdose, but the means of my destruction are not entirely important. Not so much as the aftermath which ensued.

          Most people will never get to witness their death and ensuing funeral service, but through an unfortunate series of circumstances that is exactly the position I found myself in. My death was far from unusual…violent, painful and quick- all concepts familiar to society. My demise was only extraordinary in its untimeliness, and the fact that technically, I am alive.

          My funeral, however, was extraordinary in every way possible. The service was not held in some lavish funeral home with the prerequisite flowers, cards and beautifully polished casket in which I will rest eternally in peace. Also absent was the moving eulogy, full of witty banter to mark the passing of my life. Instead, my funeral was held in a court room, where man and woman alike spent countless hours recounting my every transgression. And, while an abundance of tears were shed during my funeral, they were not shed out of sadness for the loss of my life, but for the trail of destruction left in its wake.

          At the conclusion of my funeral, the man presiding (not a priest, by the way) stood in his flowing black robe and proclaimed one word…LIFE! Imagine the meaning of that word in a dead man’s mind. LIFE! LIFE! LIFE! The word echoed to every nook and cranny of my mind. The irony of it all so overpowering that, had I been alive, my heart may have stopped. Instead, I couldn’t stop giggling.