Someone who meant a lot to me once told me that the darkest part of night comes just before the dawn. I have seen the night of this life, an almost perpetual darkness, and am left to wonder where the dawn is. Glimpses of light that I’ve seen reflected something greater, perhaps only veiled by the darkness… But yet the darkness remains and I have yet to see any such thing as a dawn to lift it. I live in hope for this metaphorical dawn, eternal longing for it, but as of now giving up doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea.

My name is Jeremiah. But that is not who I am, for a name is just a name, a tag for a body that can be quite easily changed with some effort and a little money. As I write this, I lay in this prison cell in utter solitude, scrawling away at the paper you see before you because this is all that I have left, and because perhaps my story is a story you might like to hear. Not because it’s a story of playful and enjoyable nature, of humor that will lighten your soul, but because it’s a story of tragedy and heartbreak, of extreme highs and lows, of light and darkness, of love and hate. At the time that you read this, I know not what this cell will be used for; perhaps this horrid place is being torn down and a utopian society raised in its place. No matter the case, at this time this cell’s primary purpose is to hold inmates like myself waiting to be put to death. I believe it is a lasting custom for prisons to be required to supply pen and paper to a prisoner who requests it, as many of the great pieces of literature in history were written by prisoners… Some of the books of the Bible were in fact written in such a manner. Writing is a curious thing: our words, expressing our deepest thoughts and emotions, conveyed in a physical form to be read by any who wish to do so. My words once held some considerable power, not in a written form, but in a form of verbal persuasive ability. Some called it manipulation; some called it talent. Nonetheless, my words have been silenced, perhaps in a form of poetic justice that I long deserved. I am mute. Unable to testify for myself at my trial, I have been sentenced to death on thirty-seven counts of murder, one count of perjury, one count of treason, and several misdemeanors. The account that you are about to read is my testimony. The pages which you are about to skim through contain my story. If you have the ability to do so, make this story known to the ones that will have executed me long ago. My name is Jeremiah, and this is my story, which I am unable to tell.