This has never left my mind. It has tormented me for so long. He was a murderer, one soon to be put to death. He would cry to me that he never wanted to kill. That voice had told him to. I knew what was wrong, he had a mental illness. I could never pinpoint what it was, but he might have been a schizophrenic. Just like I am.

 He always told me about his family. He had 2 twin boys and 1 daughter. They were cute from what I could understand. He had a wife and what I mean by had is he killed his wife. His children were with their grandparents,being told that their dad had to deal with consequences of the mother's death. 

He kept telling me how he would miss his children and he didn't want to go to hell. I told him I would reassure him that he would see his children the night before he would die. So I did so. The night before his death I let him see his children and when his children left, I comforted him. He would not stop crying, but what hit me the hardest was the last and final night I visited him. 

He was crying in pain.

 I knew I could do nothing,but sit and watch. I couldn't even interact with him. I sat there hearing his screams and watching him cry. I can never get the image of him screaming and crying. His voice is one of the many I can remember. But one of the few where it sounds so real, like he is in front of me once again. Screaming,crying and reaching out for me as I could only sit there and watch.