Imagine if one was to tell you, “You are to die by firing squad tomorrow.” Alone in your cell, it dawns on you that the prospect of death has suddenly become real – as real as the cot you sit on, as real as the crucifix hanging on your wall, and as real as the metal bars that clang shut to seal your fate for good.
Ever the optimist that you are, you never saw this coming. You believed a solution always lay ahead. Now, for the first time in your life, death is at the forefront of your mind. And for the first time ever, you panic.
You set aside thoughts of divine intervention because that would be too easy. Life, you already know, is not like that. Instead, you begin to rationalize your fear. You ask, aren’t our bodies simply a mass of molecules that decompose once the heart stops regulating the coursing of blood in our veins? After death, as some philosophers have already argued, don’t we just cease to exist? Your body may lay there, your vision slowly darkening and your hearing disappearing into a quiet lull, but after that, you will no longer be around to witness your skin turn pale and your body decompose. How could you when you are nothing? What then is so fearful about death?
The knowledge that there may be pain could perhaps bring this fear. Even then, how bad can a gunshot wound be? Once the bullet hits your heart, you will have only moments to live. But, should the bullet miss your heart, you can bleed and die a slow, agonizing death. You will be writhing and gasping down on the ground yet no one will step forward to ease your suffering. The crowd is there merely to watch the spectacle of dying -- yours -- and nothing more. Try as you might, you cannot shake these gruesome thoughts from your mind.
You shift your gaze to the book lying on your cot. You were reading it a while ago. All your life you loved books. They were a source of inspiration and blotted out reality whenever immersed in them. But whiling the time away with it now is pointless. Even if you could will your arm to reach for that book, your eyes will not focus on the words, not when the specter of death occupies your mind.
You held steadfast to your beliefs. You had even gone so far as to say that life is meaningless without them. You were certain of this. Yet now as death stares you in the face while your heart pounds and your stomach knots with every breath, you have to ask. Are your convictions -- indeed, is any conviction -- worth dying for?
You could beg for your life. Forget about raising a family or having grandchildren in the future, but wouldn’t it be nice to be free again, pack your bags for the trip home, and caress your lover’s cheek once again with the back of your hand right here and now? You can then watch the sunset while sitting in a chair, a drink in your hand, and a book on your lap. Such imageries fanciful as they may seem are not beyond reach. All it would take is for you to recant and do what the powers that be -- “cancer” you called them -- ask of you. Retreating into the countryside away from the public eye you can finally rest. Just have mercy and spare your life.
But maybe it is not fear you feel but sadness. You think of your small band of friends who will remember you when you are gone. And within this small band maybe two, or even just one, who truly understands and will stand by you to the very end. But, you ask, will this friend die with you? You think not. In a deep and profound sense, you learn the meaning of being alone.
Martyrdom or being remembered by a grateful nation for all time is a stretch of the imagination that it does not even graze your thoughts. You can only hope that the ideals you have put in writing bring change from the top, and not from the foolhardy bravery that your radical comrades are right now scheming while you pen this farewell within these walls. You are certain they will gain nothing but violence and more deaths. You will die resigned to the knowledge that you have lost.
Time is slowly ticking and it plays tricks on your mind. Being the smart man that you are, you know that the only way to remain sane is to keep your mind busy. So you formulate a plan. You do not know what your state of mind will be in the final minutes, but, you figure, it shouldn’t be too hard to do. You decide, at the last moment, you will turn to face your executioner, and, futile as it may sound, make sure that the bullet pierces your heart.
(December 29, 1896)
