I sit alone in my cell, staring at the wall. Letting out a sigh, I glance down at my lap, seeing a bread roll, the remains of my final meal. I pick it up, and suddenly I feel anger rushing through me.

It wasn't fair. I wasn't supposed to be the one in this cell. My employer had promised me that. Instead, it was the same dirty bastard who had gotten me in here. I throw the increasingly stale roll into the ground, and it pings off the concrete wall and back onto the equally as hard ground.

Would it hurt when they turned on the switch? Or would it be quick, like someone shutting out the lights? 

I run a hand through my dark hair. At least death would be better than this place. From my knowledge, I'd been locked up in a high-security prison, the kind of place they put the lunatics and the murders. There was nothing to do, except to take too short showers, stare at a wall, and play twenty questions with a psychiatrist who is equally interested and disgusted at what you have to say.

The latter of the three was possibly the worst. You were sat in a room, with your hands chained to the table in front of you. There was a mirror on one side, an illusion of privacy, but of course the staff could see through the other side, just in case an inmate got too riled. The women or man in front of you would ask all sorts of questions. 

"Why did you do it?" "How many times?"  "Do you not feel empathy?" "Do you feel guilty?"

They never liked my answers. Or my explanations. They didn't believe anything I said.

I tried to explain to them, that although I was the one to wield the knife, I wasn't the one behind it all. I tried to say, it was my employer, that bastard, who planned every one.

He  was the one that planned everything. He was the one that outlined my target. And he  was the one that handed me the knife.

Just because I don't feel particularly guilty about it doesn't mean I'm the bad guy. I didn't know those people. I was just trying to get some money in my pockets, and just to feel something. All the crime, the 'bad deeds'. I wanted to feel alive.

And now here I am. Stuck in a cell, with nothing but my own thoughts for company. I glance at the thick, small, windowed door that separates me from the rest of the world. 

I stand up, and start to pace back and forth. I'd been in here for nearly a year at this point, or so I thought. I really had no clue as to what day, or even what month it was. I had no calendar, and the only window had bars through one side, so you could barely peer out.

I sit down on my 'bed'. It was nothing more than a cot, really. I put my hands behind my head, stretching out, listening to what little noise I could hear from inside this cell. There wasn't much, except for the occasional chatter of guards or yelling of one of the crazies from a cell next door.

I sigh again, curling up on my cot. So this is how I spend my last night on Earth.

No family, no friends, no money, no life, and the label of a 'serial killer' for as long as people care to remember me.

I close my eyes, and fall asleep.