Right out of the gate, there’s something you should know. I am not a good person. So don’t go feeling sorry for me. If anything, let my story serve as a cautionary tale. Love is blind. That you should remember. As for the rest, well, it’s complex, and quite frankly, a jury of my peers have already made their decision.

As it turns out, whether it was the right one is irrelevant once it’s been made. This is what I’m guilty of: I searched these people out. I wanted in, and in that respect I got what I wanted. It just so happened to be more than I bargained for. Real life doesn’t work like it does on television. If a crime is committed, someone has to pay. And the law, as much as we’d like to believe, isn’t that black and white. Add the fact that you have real people, fallible people, with their own experiences, judgments, and beliefs they bring to the table, judging your fate, and well, it’s not as simple as they want you to believe. Less so, when you’re ‘the other woman’ with a long history of making bad decisions. In that case, you’d better be prepared to pay when your number is called.

“Inmate,” I hear the guard say. His voice is deep, thick with false bravado. Still, I flinch when I hear my number called, even after all this time. “Let’s get a move on. They ain’t gonna wait all day.”

Stalling, I stare at the clothes that were delivered to me. I don’t want to disturb them; they’re almost too pretty to touch. Play with fire, get burned, I hear my mother say. A woman should be reserved in all things. I remember Grant saying that once. This has always been my problem. I never set out to be a troublemaker, quite the opposite actually. It’s just I never could resist doing something I wasn’t supposed to do.

Running my fingers over the soft material, I feel the hurt bubble up, and I do my best to stuff it back down into its rightful place. You have to do that in here. If only you’d been better at doing it on the outside. It’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve felt something this nice, this soft, this real. It’s just a blouse and a pencil skirt, a little reminder from the old days, but it feels like I’ve won. Small victories. Sometimes that’s all a person can ask for.

I wonder if they’ll let me keep them when this is all said and done. Probably not. I make a mental note to ask— it’s little things like this that keep you sane, that remind you that you’re still alive. In the end, I probably won’t ask after all. Stupid questions get stupid answers.

I check the tags; they’re new, a condition of the terms I agreed to in exchange for the interview. It’s nice to have a bit of leverage, and nice clothes was one of my requests. For this, in the off chance that she might be watching, I want to be seen in something other than bright orange scrubs. I want to be seen as human. I don’t know if that’s still a possibility. Once you’re in here, it’s easy to be forgotten. Thankfully, I have something they want. Something that sells. That something is a story.

Here’s what they want to know: Had I known I was going to be sentenced to die for my crimes, would I have done things differently?

It’s probably the one question that matters more than anything. Even now, I’m not sure how I’ll answer. It’s a tough question, and while I have a lot of time on my hands to mull it over, I’d propose that it’s not that simple. What I want to say is this: The reality of who someone is online and the reality of who that person is in real life are often two different things. When it comes to saving their own ass, people will always turn on you. Friends. Lovers. Everyone. Remember that.

This makes me think of Tyler. He got off easy. He didn’t admit to the drugs in my system being his. He didn’t admit to the gun I used coming from anyone named ‘Big Sean.’ He said I made it all up. What he did admit to was witnessing me stalk the Dunns online. Two lies, one truth.

Everyone knows drug users are unreliable.

The guard bangs on the door with his fist. “Coming,” I say and I deftly slip the orange prison uniform shirt over my head. It's stamped with Death Row Unit in big black letters as though I could forget. I unclasp the granny bra and slide the new one on. I check myself in the small plastic mirror and I smile. You can’t imagine what a good fitting bra will do for one’s self-esteem. In here, everything is issued, everything is mostly the same. Nothing is my own anymore. I've been reduced to having basic necessities dished out to me as though I'm an animal, caged and on display.

She thinks she’s better than us, I hear them say as I’m escorted down the corridor. I know there will be hell to pay for this later, but I might as well enjoy it now. This is probably the last time I’ll wear plain clothes, the last time I’ll remember what it felt like to look like a woman, the last time anyone will be jealous of me. And even after all this time, even knowing I’m going to die, I still want what I’ve always wanted: envy.

I’ve been offered good money to give this interview, to tell my side of the story, and I can only assume this comes with being one of only seven women on death row in the entirety of the United States.

This is my third attempt at this interview and judging by the way the last two went, I bet they're thinking what I'm thinking. Hopefully the third time will be the charm. I’m led to a chair in the center of the room. My hands are cuffed, but they assure me I’ll be filmed from the waist up. The woman interviewing me has already taken her place. I study her as she stares at her phone. She’s pretty, in a plain sort of way. I watch as she crosses and uncrosses her legs, and I wonder what she could possibly have to be nervous about. Already I have forgotten what life on the outside is like. I forget that it’s also a dog-eat-dog world out there, maybe even more so than in here, because at least in this place we are governed by rules. I feel sweat bead up at my temples. It could be nerves or it could be the bright lights overhead. Someone dusts powder across my nose. There’s a flurry of activity around, a buzz about the place I haven’t felt in a long time.

The woman looks up. “Ready?” she asks offering a reassuring smile.

I nod slightly. I can see that she thinks I’m going to run again. She leans forward a little, lowers her gaze and then her voice. “Just remember why you’re doing this.”

“Oh, you mean for the freedom?”

She laughs nervously. She doesn’t understand my sarcasm. Although, whether she gets me matters not. We both know I’ve exhausted my appeals. That’s why the price tag on the interview went up. Time isn’t on my side. “There’s freedom in telling your story, you know,” she offers sympathetically.

I want to tell her she’s wrong about that. Telling my story will change nothing. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing it for her. I’ve thought about what I might want to say to her. And mostly, I want to say I’m sorry. I want to let her know that it’s okay. I own up to my part in all of this. Unlike her, I wasn’t given much of a choice. So, I’m not without blame. Still, it’s high time she owns up to the part she played. I want to hear her say it. Words have power. In here, they’re the only power.

“People are very curious about you,” the producer tells me as they affix a mic to the underside of my collar. She’s holding a cup off coffee, I watch the steam eke out from the small slit in the lid. It makes me think of Americanos, and it’s funny how things seem to have a way of finding their way around, out, and through. The smell makes my stomach audibly growl. God, it’s been so long. She takes a sip and then swallows like it gives her life. “They all want to hear what you have to say.”

“They want to know what I’m doing with the money,” I reply with the tilt of my head. That’s what she thinks, too. I can see it in the whites of her eyes. And why wouldn’t she think that? Everything she does is for the money. Otherwise, why would she waste such a lovely day in a maximum security prison?

She laughs. “Yes, probably.” I don’t tell her that the money has nothing to do with it. After all, what good will money do me in here?

“Just relax and answer the questions truthfully,” she adds with a smile. “Shouldn’t take too long.” What reason do I have to lie? When you’re on death row, honesty isn’t a virtue people see when they look at you. They want to know if the things they say about me are true. They want to hear it from the horse’s mouth, even if they won’t believe it.

But what is truth? Whose truth do they want? Mine? Hers? Mostly, they want to hear that you’re remorseful.

Am I sorry? I’d like to think the answer would be yes—that if I’d known, I would have made different choices. But there isn’t room for maybes. It’s absolutes they seek. They want confirmation that the choice I made was the wrong one. It isn’t a martyr they want. Dying for my sins is not enough for them. They want to be able to rest their heads easily with the notion I know what I did was wrong. Modern society runs on the idea that I’m supposed to feel remorse.

But that’s the one thing I have left in my control: the way I feel. Everything else has been taken from me, so forgive me, but I think maybe I'll hold on to this one last thing.

On the other hand, if truth is what they’re seeking, the truth is yes, it was love. No matter the outcome, I loved him. And if one has to die…what greater cause is there than love?

That’s not to say I didn’t know the odds. I’m not a simpleton. I know there are approximately 6.5 billion people on the planet, and sure, I could have loved any one of them. I could have made different choices. But I didn’t.

The anchor starts to speak; we’re going live any moment. However, I’m not here. I’m somewhere else. It’s not the interviewer’s voice I hear. It’s someone else’s.

I’m picturing her face, and I’m wondering if I ever cross her mind. I guess that’s what we’re all seeking. To be remembered. This need alone makes me certain, if not hopeful, that my name has run through her mind, at least momentarily. Surely, you can’t just erase a person that easily, like chalk on a chalkboard, like they were nothing. It wasn’t nothing, what happened. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I’d go crazy. Perhaps that’s the unfairness of it all, was simply that her poker face was better. That’s why I’m in here while she’s out there.

They’re going to ask me about her. About how much I knew. Other things, too. I haven’t quite worked out what I’ll say. She knows what she’s done. To let everyone in on her trickery is unnecessary. But to say it wouldn’t give me a certain satisfaction to know she’s thinking of me would be a lie. I hope it hurts, too. I hope my name runs through her mind on a path of destruction like nothing she’s seen. I hope the memories strike with a jagged edge. I hope they cut deep. For she deserves nothing less than searing, burning, white-hot pain.

They’re counting down now. Here goes nothing. This is where they make an example out of me. Look, look at what can happen. Can you imagine?

It’s pretty amazing if you think about it—and I have plenty of time for that—how they say one bad choice leads to another bad choice and then onto another, until eventually you’re sitting, waiting to die, and wondering whether it’ll come soon. Sometimes, I think about what it will be like when it does. Will she come? Will she say goodbye? Will she apologize? Perhaps that is the worst of it all. The punishment isn’t that they’re going to kill me. But that I have to wait to find out.