The kitchen is added to my work rotation. I am forced to stand behind a stainless steel counter in my chains and scrape uneaten food off the inmates' plates into the garbage.  A broken plate means a day shackled to the wall in my cell without any food of any sort. My stomach grumbles.  It is an exquisite torture to stand there and watch delicious pieces of brocoli, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, peas and chocolate cake go into the garbage while I must live on a diet of stale bread, potato peelings, wormy rice and water spiced with urine, spit and who knows what! Two guards stand by ready to break my arms if I dare eat a piece of the inmate's leftovers.

When I am finished in the kitchen the guards drag me to a sparse room and forced to sit in a wood chair. The mean  woman  guard enters the room and glares at me. I cringe.  She hates me more than anyone in this place. It takes her about five minutes to cut my hair off with her dull scissors.

The woman is rough and mean. She grabs my chin cruelly and turns my head from side to side as she snips and cuts. Tears are streaming down my face. She just hacks it off and the chestnut brown hair I had worn so long all my life is on the floor. I will not live long enough for my hair to grow out. When she is finished she holds my head in her hands and spits in my face. "You thought you were so pretty!" the woman shouts meanly. She gives me a broom and dustpan and orders me to sweep my hair up and throw it in the trash can.  The sight of my long hair on the floor reminds me of my daughter's first hair cut. I saved her hair in an envelope that is still in a drawer in my bedroom back home. My hair goes in the trash.

I feel absolutely degraded by the loss of my hair. They have taken everything from me.There is nothing left to take, except my life. The doctor tells me the brutal haircut was the prison's response to my request for a hairbrush.  I decide I will not ask for a toothbrush. He says my hair was cut off for hygienic purposes. They do not want vermin getting into my hair and  spreading disease and they will not waste their time cleaning the hair of a woman who will soon be dead anyway.

While I am shackled by my wrists to the wall the guard who has my wedding ring comes in with that lecherous grin on his face. He kneels down and pats my head nicely, asking how his "sweet meat" was doing. I fear he is going to rape me again, but when he stands up, he pulls out a big fat black snake and drops it in my lap. My eyes bulge at the sight of that snake on me. I pee in terror, right where I am sitting. I shriek, twist and turn against my shackles until the snake falls on the floor. I try to crawl up the wall to get away from the thing.

They leave that snake in the cell with me with me shackled to the wall.  Days go by. I cannot relax for a moment. I sit there in my pee shacked to the wall and eye the snake fearfully. The snake pretty much ignores me, preferring to coil up behind my toilet bowl, but occasionally it slithers around the cell, especially at night. I never sleep. At night I am afraid to breathe because I want to hear the snake if it starts slithering around.  I am terrified the snake will slither up my smock and get me.

Suddenly, I feel it slither over my feet and I shriek hysterically.  I can hear the guards laugh outside as I scream uncontrollably. During the day I watch in horror as the snake captures a mouse and eats it alive right at my feet.  After four days of unrelenting terror, the guards retrieve the snake. They are worried for the mice and spiders! Thank God, the snake is gone. I can finally relax.

While I am curled up in my cell humming to myself, two guards come in carrying paper bags.
What is this? I hope they are bringing me something to eat! But no. They turn the bags upside down and shake them. Several spiders fall out and begin crawling around.

Two head my way and I am screaming and cringing in a dank corner of the cell. Of course, my terror amuses my guards, who inform me the spiders are black widows and are replacements for the ones eaten by the snake. They tell me I better make friends with them!

It does not take long for the spiders to find me. Sitting in my cell dreaming of home I feel a little tickle on my thigh beneath my smock. The tickle becomes a little more noticeable and I pull up my smock to see the ugly black spider on me. I shriek and brush it away in horror. The bite itself is a tiny red mark and does not hurt all that much. My heart is racing. I have been poisioned!

I am sickened by the bite. In hours I lay on the concrete, moaning and crying, throwing up a white foamy substance.  The bite mark swells and turns hard. It itches at first, then burns. The skin turns purplish. I am feverish. One minute I am burning up and my smock is wet with my sweat. The next moment I am shivering with cold. I am delerious. I am sure I am going to die. The guards will not let me see the doctor, but leave me moaning in my cell for days.

They say the doctor is on vacation.

For three days I lay in that one spot, moaning and crying, too weak to move. I cannot eat and can only occasionally sip from my water cup. It hurts to swallow. My vision is blurry. Finally, the guards say the doctor will see me. They have to carry me to his office upstairs and they hurl me onto the floor.
In answer to my question, the doctor says I will, indeed, die. But he laughs and says it will still be on the gallows! He is sure one black widow bite will not kill me, but I had better avoid anymore bites. I shudder. How can I do that? I am living with the terrible monsters!

The doctor monitors my broken foot, which is still swollen and purple. I have stubbed my toe several times and the guard with my ring  has deliberately stepped on it whenever he can.  The doctor says there is nothing he can do. I will be dead before it can heal.  Before the spider bit me I could barely walk. Between the chafing of the shackles on my ankle sores and my broken toe I hobble painfully. I am slow, which angers my impatient guards and they push me around to go faster. Now, I am even more crippled by the black widow spider bite that leaves my leg stiff  and swollen. I am in such pain!
The guards say "my vacation" is over and I must return to work tomorrow. I do not see how.
When the time comes, it is so hard for to me to walk. The evil guard with my wedding ring walks behind me pressing his baton into the small of my back to push me along.  Sometimes he lowers the baton beneath the hem of my smock and brings the stick up between my legs to goose me into moving faster. Even the other inmates laugh at my humiliation. I barely have the strength to reach the warden's garden where I am supposed to spend the day weeding and hoeing.

I have found that I am the only inmate in the whole prison with a wet, basement cell. The doctor tells me I am special. All the other inmates are upstairs in the modern cells, even the death row inmates who are shackled and wear blue smocks like me. I am the only one eating so poorly.  As the weeks turn into months, the chains around my waist hang loose. I am losing weight under the barbaric regimen. My ribs are showing. My teeth ache. The guards cinch the chain around my waist tighter and tighter, locking it down so it digs into my flesh. They tell me that is the last adjustment they should ever have to make. "You aren't long for this world, gringa," the guard tells me.

I mark my time by the doctor's schedule. When he does not see me for two days in a row I know it is the weekend.  On our Monday visits he always asks me how my weekend went. Of course my weekends were just like every other day-sitting in my dark cell dreaming of my life back home.
The doctor always enjoys recounting  his weekends, the trips to the beach, the movies he saw, the restaurants he ate at. He likes to add to my pain in his own way.  He asks me to describe my favorite meal, asking me what I would eat if I had my freedom. It is an overwhelming question. He tells me to think about it, which makes me wonder if he knows something about my future. He does give me a glass of water on our visits now. That extra bit of liquid makes me feel so much better.
The doctor tells me my case was big news all over Dasala. The scene of me breaking down and crying as I was led out of the courtroom was on the television news for days. I had been shocked when I was arrested at the airport. I was shocked by the way the police treated me and the jail conditions and I was mortified when the judge found me guilty. I was certain the White House would do something to save me, but the ambassador never returned my calls or came to the court house.
Before my conviction, the newspapers all ran pictures of me from my high school year book and my wedding pictures, which made the average person hate me all the more because I fit their image of the spoiled American. And during the trial the newspapers got hold of my vacation pictures and ran the photographs of me in my sundress at an expensive restaurant and in my bikini at the beach, which made all the poor people seethe with resentment. I bought that bikini to look sexy for my husband. Now that bikini was being used to make me look like a slut!

He tells me there is a billboard in the capital with my picture on it and a message saying that no one is above the law in Dasala. The doctor tells me there is probably not a person in the country, including the American ambassador, who wants me to live. Once I am executed, the American government can begin negotiating with Dasala, but if the United States forces the government to spare me, Dasala will refuse to negotiate.

One day the doctor gives me and orange! The doctor watches silently as  I savor the fruit, section by section. Its juice is so exquisite. It is the best thing I have eaten in so long. I feel myself beginning to cry. I am a pathetic sight as I greedily eat the peels. I take one of the orange peels and rub it around inside my mouth, cleaning my teeth and savoring the sensation of freshness.

The doctor looks at me oddly. He is quiet, but he orders me to stand close to him, He touches me.
He caresses me over my smock. It is the first time any one has touched me gently since I came to this prison. I bite my lip and struggle not to cry. His hands move under my smock,  caressing my thighs, cupping my buttocks, and tangling his thin, delicately manicured hands in the dark tuft between my legs. His hand is gentle as he probes my vulva. I am hopelessly dry from months of dehydration. I wince at the pain. He spits in his hand to ease my discomfort, a gesture that touches my heart. This is as close to a romantic moment as I will ever experience the rest of my life. His spit lubricates me. Slowly, gently, he presses his finger into me. I gasp. My heart is racing. This is so intense.  A man being gentle with me. Maybe for the last time.

 This man, for all his obsession in my death, is  another human being.
As his finger probes me, the doctor kisses me, my mouth half open, I feel his tongue. I hear his breath accelerating. He hugs me tenderly. My shackles prevent me from doing anything, but accepting his embrace. I cannot hug back. I am filled with conflicting emotions as the doctor strokes my hair and my back with his gentle hands. His tenderness has taken me by surprise. The orange, the spit and the hug have touched my heart so dearly. Yet, I am also thinking I may finally be able to get something more in return. Another fruit. A Pepsi. I am still a woman alone with a man. I may have some leverage here. I think of the letter I so desperately want to write, to say goodbye to my children.

The doctor seems nervous. He looks at me strangely. It is a look I have seen before in men, usually in bars or on the beach. He wants me. I understand my chains, my unkempt hair and my death sentence make me especially appealing to this man.

Neither of us speak as he unfastens his belt and unzips his pants. He is already erect. I kneel down carefully in my shackles. The chains restrict my options. But I still have my mouth.  My chains barely allow me to reach up to his erection, but I do. I tenderly stroke it, kiss it. He doesn't make a single movement. He stands mesmerized, looking down at me. His hand on the back of my head, presses my face to him. His swollen penis looms inches from my face. My nostrils flare at his musky scent. His curly pubic hairs tickle my cheek. He is uncircumsized and I carefully push back the foreskin to kiss the swollen head. It is so warm. His knees tremble and I feel pleased that I can still have that affect on a man. He leans against the wall as I take him into my mouth.

The doctor moans and his penis grows harder and more insistent inside my mouth. I feel the tension building in his cock. A sense of urgency. I shift my weight on my knees to ease my discomfort and my shackles rattle, reminding me of my condition. I wonder if the guards outside the door are suspicious of the silence in the doctor's office. Or do they assume he has been taking advantage of me all this time? I realize he is different from the others because he could have had me any time.
With my eyes closed, I suck the hardened cock like it was a popsicle. I feel him shake. His hand on my head presses my face harder into him. His hips arch forward, pressing his cock deeper into my mouth. His climax is approaching. My jaw aches, but I continue making love to him with my mouth.
His cock tenses inside my mouth. His thigh muscles tighten. I sense the doctor holding his breathe. Every ounce of his concentration is on his penis and my mouth.  I feel him begins to spasm. I swallow to keep from gagging as his orgasm fills my mouth with the warm salty come.

I am rewarded by the sound of the doctor moaning. I expect the guards to come in and find us this way.  I focus on breathing through my nose as I swallow the viscous, warm semen, ignoring the nausea. I fight the urge to vomit and lick his softening penis, thinking this is protein and liquid to sustain me. The wonderful citrus taste of the orange is a memory. My mouth is filled with the pungent taste of this man's semen.

A few months ago I was a married woman, a mother of two children with a suburban American lifestyle complete with a pool in my backyard. I was a proud American tourist who came to Dasala with new summer clothes, eager to get an incredible tan and enjoy the beaches. Now I am a pathetic prison whore, groveling in chains, giving myself away for an orange and a drink of water!
The doctor pulls himself out of my mouth. His come drools down my chin and I wipe myself clean with the palm of my hand. He is finished with me.

I struggle to stand up on my  stiffened legs and straighten my smock. My left leg is asleep. My back hurts. I feel clumsy in my shackles. I do not look at him and he does not look at me.  I am surprised the man seems to be embarrassed. He pulls  his pants up again without a word. I step back with a rattle of my chains and go to the door as the doctor calls for the guards to come and take me away. He mutters something under his breath and my face reddens with shame at his words.

I walk back to my dark cell, dragging my feet, the cement floor hard beneath under my soles. My chains clatter. My body aches. The pungent masculine taste lingers in my mouth. I think of the orange.  And I think of the doctor. He  is a strange man, capable of tenderness in a terrible place.
Yet, he is eager to see me die. He calls me Julie when every one else calls me a slut. He gives me an orange when others pee in my drinking water, yet after making love to him the best I can, he calls me a whore for what I did.  I guess it is my place.

The doctor will not let me write a letter, but one day he shows me a blank book he has bought as a present for me! He allows me several  minutes during our visits to write a journal about my time in prison. He urges me to write faster. I think he senses my time is running out. He says he will use the material for his research. And maybe some day my children will read it. The doctor is taking a very big risk. I am so grateful. Writing in my secret journal gives me a purpose in what life I have left.
I itch all over all the time. I now find tiny white things in my pubic hair. I notice little black bugs crawling down there. I am mortified. I have always taken such good care of myself. Now I have lice! I scratch myself until I am bleeding, which makes the lice even happier. The next day there are more lice. And they seem bigger.

When the guards come to hose my cell down, they wrinkle their noses in disgust and kick me around so they can aim their spray directly between their legs.  The guard who calls me his girlfriend puts his boot on my chest and kicks me backwards. He is snarling. "What happened to my sweet meat? You are such a stinking pig. An old stinking pig! No one will touch you."  He spits on my face. I wipe his saliva off with my hand and lick it off my palm. The woman guard says they will not be making many more trips to my cell.

In his office during one of our visits the doctor tells me he plans to leave the country after my execution. He has been accepted to a program at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.  He is very excited.
He says I should be happy for him. He is going to be a pathologist.

He has kept a collection of the newspaper articles about my case. He shows them to me, but does not allow me to touch them. They are his. I cannot read the language, but he is proud that he is quoted in almost all the stories. No one is allowed to interview me, so he talks to the newspaper reporters. He is very popular because of his access to me. I feel betrayed.  All the personal details from our private conversations have been published in the Dasala newspapers. I am embarrassed and ashamed.

One of the newspaper stories reports the United States government revoked my passport after my conviction. The ambassador said the action was to show American support for law and order.
Another newspaper quoted my husband saying I had too much credit card debt, which was why I would sell drugs. What a horrible lie! I am not allowed to tell my side. No one is interested.
One day the doctor tells me my hair was retrieved from the trash  by the guards and distributed as souvenirs of the doomed American woman.  He opens an envelope and holds up a handful of what I recognize as my hair. He is proud because he has a bigger hunk of my hair than any of the guards.  My hair is not my own, but the property of these horrid men who will put me to death!
The doctor smirks at my expression and says he will keep it with the newspaper clippings and the notes he has taken. He shows me his collection of pictures of me. The photographs are terrifying.
I look absolutely horrid, so stark and gaunt. I do not recognize myself. He says he is thinking of writing a book about my hanging. He intends to use my journal for his book.
He thinks it will be a best seller in America and make him a rich man!

In my cell the next morning while tending to my bare feet, massaging my calloused soles and rubbing my broken toe, I notice a tiny speck of nail polish left on my toes. It reminds me of the woman I used to be and puts into perspective the pathetic creature I am now. I sob.

The doctor tells me the authorities are preparing for my execution. So many people want to see me hang,  they have to make special preparations to handle the crowd. The warden has asked for extra money to pay for crowd control. There is even talk of shutting the schools and businesses and busing people to the prison. The plan is to have me executed in front of a small crowd of special guests, then leave my corpse  twisting and turning slowly at the end of the rope  so that everyone can see what happens to arrogant Americans who do not obey Dasala laws! The public display of my corpse is the government's way of making a statement, he explains. The picture of my body hanging from the gallows will be on the television news and on the front pages of all the newspapers. It is especially newsworthy because I am the first American to be executed in this country.

The doctor likes to describe in detail how I will die.

"You will  be kicking wildly in the air. Your face will darken, turn red, then blue, then black. Your mouth will be open, but you will not be able to breathe. It will be horrible for you. You will lose control of your bladder. Your piss will be pouring down your leg. Your bowels will open when your sphincters release. It will be very humiliating for you. Your tongue will swell, blacken and hang several inches out of your mouth as you die. Thick saliva will pour out of your mouth,. The whites of your eyes will be speckled with red pinpoints from the pressure in your brain."
"You will suffer terribly for maybe two minutes. It will seem forever for you. It will be a good time for you to think about your crimes as you are hanging from the rope.  You will be in agony.
You will be jerking like a hooked fish," the doctor says, savoring my discomfort.
"I didn't depict you too ugly, did I?" He laughs in his broken English when he sees my stricken expression.  I am certain he will have an orgasm when I die. For him, my tormented death will be a sexual event.
"It is what you deserve for your crimes, you arrogant American!" The doctor is smiling sweetly when he says this. It breaks my heart that our moment of intimacy did not change this man's passion for my death!
The doctor will determine the exact time of my death. The last woman he saw executed was not pronounced officially dead for twenty-four minutes. He says it will take longer for me to die if they use a short drop. A long drop will break my neck.
After  dangling from the gallows for two hours, the doctor tells me my body will be cold and  stiff with rigor mortis by the time he puts me in my coffin.   I try not to imagine what that will be like.
My sleep has been plagued by nightmares since my arrest at the airport. The doctor's description of how I will die on the gallows makes my nightmares even more horrible. I dream I am a fish jerking on a line and wake up screaming, gasping for breath, my sweat-soaked smock, twisted around my body and  sticking to my skin. No one comes in to assure me.

One day the doctor comes into my cell. The stink makes his eyes water. He grimaces and holds his breath and keeps waving the buzzing flies from his face.  His revulsion embarrasses me. He has come on a day I am being punished for not being strong enough to work,  my wrists shackled to the wall over my head. It is a typical punishment for me. He takes several pictures of me. He has the guards release my arms and directs me to pose for his camera, ordering me to squat down over my little toilet bowl, to hold my chains, to stand by the door. I do everything the doctor tells me. Why not?

He looks at the sores on my ankle. The wound seems to be getting worse even though I almost never walk any more. My broken toe throbs. The  infected spider bite on my thigh is blackened and swollen. I have a sore on my mouth. A horrid rash has developed between my legs.  He watches as my body is shaken by a painful coughing frenzy,  spitting up phlegm and blood to keep from choking. My cough is so bad I have a broken rib and it hurts to breathe. He presses against my rib several times with his fingers, not to diagnose the injury. He says he likes to see my lower lip quiver when I am in pain! I ask for medicine, but the doctor says he has orders not to give me any. I realize that if I am not executed soon  I will die in this cell.

I have started talking to myself. When I am not humming or singing, I am conversing with myself.
People ignore me when I speak. Everyone, except the doctor. I have no friends. My family and my country have abandoned me.

My attorney visits me in my cell. I am shackled to the wall because I still lack the strength to do a day's work. I can tell he is shocked by the sight of me. During the trial he had said his government would never execute "a pretty American" like me. The last time he saw me my hair was long and carefully brushed. I was scented with Miss Dior perfume and I wore butter rum lipstick, along with Max factor blush, eye liner and mascera. I was wearing pantyhose!  I know I am not so pretty anymore. During the trial I always dressed nicely  to impress the judge. Now in my stinking dark cell with my ratty smock and sores covering my body, I do not look at all like the woman he defended. I have a terrible vaginal infection and the discharge adds to the retched smell.

I sit on the floor in my filthy smock with a dirty rag between my legs to soak up the discharge.
The rag had been used by another woman before me, but I have no choice and no pride. I do not blink as a fly crawls across my face while he tries to explain to me in broken English that my appeal has been rejected. My execution is final. He is not even sorry. I hate the man.  My case made him a celebrity. My attorney shrugs and says he had no chance of winning since I was so clearly guilty. He seems to be smirking as he tells me the three other drug traffickers scheduled to hang with alonside me were pardoned by the president today!

He has read newspaper reports that I have been charged with smuggling contraband into my cell and stealing government property. He says I am not worth protecting. I do not bother telling him the contraband was a few blades of grass and the government property was a tomato. There is no need.
He tells me I am getting what I deserve. He says I should think about my crimes when they put the noose around my neck. This is MY attorney!

"You only have yourself to blame," he says, looking at me curiously before leaving my cell.
I was not prepared for my reaction to the news. I never believed the judge would be overruled. I had always expected the President or the Embassy to cut a deal with the government. I  cry hysterically.

As I sit there alone with my wrists schackled over my head and my ankles chained together, I feel the tickle of a spider on my belly and the sting of its bite. I bury my face in my shoulder and cry.
My dreams are very strange. I sleep even more fitfully.  The doctor has told  me one story that I think of constantly. A woman sentenced to die for drug smuggling who, like me, insisted she was absolutely innocent. She endured ten years in a horrid prison and was actually freed. She went to Europe and wrote a book about her experience. Deep in my heart, I believe I will be released.
Somehow. There is no way they can really hang me. That is so barbaric! This prison is so barbaric. When I get out of here I will write a book, too!

But I am beginning to think I may not get out. Days go by and I do not get out of my stinking cell. It has been weeks since I had the strength to work, not since my punishment for stealing the tomato. My only contact with living things are the flies buzzing around my filth and the spiders, mice and lice that feed off me. The doctor does not see me. The sore on my lip is more painful.

The second black widow bite is swomen and tender on my belly, but it did not sicken me the way the first did.  Finally, the doctor calls for me. He is solemn and watchful. He says I should prepare myself.

"As a prison doctor I enjoyed most our meetings, when you were brought to me in chains, dragging your pretty bare feet and your chains across the room's floor, humbly, rest of red  polish still remaining in your toe nails, so awfully dressed, looking down, broken down. Not an arrogant American anymore, but a convict in restraints, " he tells me quite happily.
I realize he is saying good bye.

As the date of my execution approaches, there is growing excitement in the prison. I am not sure when I will be hanged because I have lost track of the days and no one will tell me. The doctor tells me that all American tourists have been ordered out of the country until after my hanging.

The doctor tells me the president of Dasala was on the cover of Newsweek, portrayed as a strong leader fighting to rid his country of drugs and improve the standard of living for his people.
He has heard that the Sixty Minutes television show wanted to send a crew to interview me in the prison, but they were turned down in favor of a Libyan television crew.

I still cannot believe it will really happen. I am miserable, absolutely terrified. When my arms are not shackled over my head I sleep on the concrete floor of my cell, hugging myself to keep warm, drinking dirty water and eating stale bread and cold soup, knowing that everyone is excited about my death. Yet, I cannot believe the President will allow this to happen to me. I voted for him! I truly believe that the Marines will come at the last minute to rescue me.  The doctor tells me to stop hoping.  Dasala's sovereignty and international politics are much bigger than the life of one miserable, flea-infested woman. If I die, the president is strong and loved by th people. If I were allowed to live, the president would look weak and his opponents would have an issue to use against him. It is the way Democracy works, the doctor tells me.

I try to imagine what it will be like for me. I know what the doctor has told me. His descriptions are vivid. But how will I react? For some reason I start thinking about how I used to watch the Wizard of Oz with my mother. She always made popcorn for us. It was her favorite movie and we always watched it together. I start singing the songs from The Wizard of Oz in my cell and try to imagine I am Dorothy in her pretty gingham dress.. When they take me to the gallows I will sing my songs from The Wizard of Oz. That will give me comfort.

The nights and days go by. The doctor does not call for me. I sit there with the flies, the stink and my rag. I wake up with my nose bleeding. Oz was a dream for Dorothy. I pray I will wake up in my waterbed and find out Dasala was a nightmare! I imagine I am Dorothy.

One night I am suddenly awakened by a vague sense of unease more than anything else. It is pitch black in my cell, but I sense something strange.

When I hear the guards I know something is wrong. I have no sense of time, but I know it is too early or too late for a visit to the doctor. There are too many guards for a routine excursion outside me cell. My heart is racing. There are sounds of excitement. The men are dressed in their finest military uniforms. A stranger with a Bible gestures at me  and says something I cannot understand. He speaks so softly. He is not a guard. My God, he is giving me my last rites!  NO!!!
I scream in panic and struggle when the guards grab me.

My wrists are cuffed painfully behind my back with my palms outward this time. The shackles are tightened around my ankles. The rag between my legs falls to the floor.

The big men are stony faced as they lead me out of my tiny cell. As much as I hate this dark, dank place, I much prefer staying there than where they are taking me now!  My legs have no strength and I collapse onto the cold stone floor, bruising my knee. I cannot walk.  I am trembling and shivering. I feel sick to my stomach. The men grab me under my armpits and drag me along the floor and up the stairs. I see the gallows illuminated in the night and I scream. There is a large crowd outside the prison. I am aware of flashes of light as people take pictures of me every step of the way. I hear familiar American voices. The Marines! No. I  am vaguely aware of a television crew in front of me.
I remember my vow to sing my Wizard of Oz songs, but I cannot. My terror is too great.

The crowd is excited. It is like a big party.  They are yelling and chanting while the guards drag me through the public yard outside the prison. I blink at the glare of the floodlights and feel the cold night breeze against my face. It has been so long since I have been outside. I feel a numbness.
I hear voices shouting my name. Words like "bitch", "whore" and "gringa slut" are chanted by  the crowd.

The men drag me to the foot of the gallows, then prod and poke me cruelly until they have forced me to stand on my feet. They make me walk the rest of the way myself. I am trembling, terrified as I slowly climb the steps up to the gallows. There are seven steps. I stumble. My feet hurt. I hear one of the guards mention it is a short drop. I do not understand the mechanics of the gallows and I try to remember what the doctor told me, but at this point I do not care. I just do not want to die!

I see the doctor standing on the gallows with his stethoscope around his neck. Our eyes meet, but he does not smile. He is watching the scene very carefully, taking in every detail of my last moments. He shows no remorse. I am just a felon.

I see my coffin waiting for me off to the side. I panic.

I notice there is a beautiful full moon in the dark sky. It is huge.
The crowd's emotions have been whipped up into a frenzy by the anti-American sentiment in the newspapers and on the television. The people want to see the spoiled rich American dance at the end of the rope. They want to see me die a horrible death so they can believe their lives are better than mine.  Their politicians have portrayed my hanging as a major defiance of the United States.
By hanging me, the politicians say Dasala stood up to the big bully.

It is horrible to realize people want to see you die.

I lose my balance at the top of the gallows. I am sobbing and convulsing.  Everything is a blur. I find the X mark where they instruct me to stand. It is where the floor will drop away. I stand there with my wrists cuffed behind my back, sobbing.My hangman looks so inhuman in his black hood with only two eye holes. I can hear his breathing. My heart is pounding so hard! My hangman puts the hard, coarse and prickly rope around my slender neck. He tightens the noose the way the doctor described: precisely behind the back of my  head to avoid any risk of breaking my vertebrae while hanging. Suddenly the hangman cinches the noose  with a jerk of the roope! I am choking. My eyes widen in surprise.  I moan in pain and my face flushes.  The crowd is dead quiet now. The rope is rough against my neck and I have a silly worry it will leave terrible abrasions.  My lower lip is quivering. Tears are streaming down my face.

I am shaking and crying, begging forgiveness. I am so sorry. No one is listening. I look around at the faces, imploring the men with my eyes to have mercy on me. Let me live! There is no mercy in those faces.

I cannot stop sobbing. I do not care about bravery or dignity. I want to go home. A calm, stern voice reads in a language I cannot understand. I have never understood the language the police used when they arrested me, or the judge in the courtroom, or even my own lawyer assigned to my case. Cameras are clicking. I know the voice is reading the charges against me and condemning me to die. The crowd shouts its approval as the men step away from me. One guard approaches me with a black hood, but he is told to step away. The people must see my death. This is Democracy in action. I am left alone in my misery to stand on the trap door and wait. My body is tense. My heart is pounding furiously.

I start singing about the Yellow Brick Road and the Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
 

I feel the door drop beneath me. My song is cut off. I fall, but not far and the choking begins. It is like the doctor told me it would be. I am gripped by intense panic as I struggle against my chains and cuffs, fighting the rope. My legs are kicking, much like I pedaled my bicycle when I was a child. I am trying with all my strength to gain a breath of air. The image of the fish struggling against the hook forms in my mind. I feel my tongue swelling and forcing its way out of  my mouth. I see flashes of the crowd. It grows darker and darker, I am only vaguely aware of what is happening as my body slowly turns at the end of the rope. I see the faces go by. They are silent, mesmerized by the sight of my death. I feel my bladder release, then my bowels. I am aware of the doctor reaching up to check my heartbeat. I am so far gone he is not aware I am still alive.  The terrible pain eases as the darkness envelopes me. I feel my my legs continue to kick, but it is like it is all happening to someone else.

 

The Ministry of the Interior stated that: "Death punishment in this country is carried out always according to the same procedures, be the offenders local citizens or wealthy american tourists, like this unhappy woman, justly and adequately executed according to the rules

DASALA WOMEN'S PRISON Medical Department
Execution Report Prisoner:  Julie Stevens Sex:     F Age:    30 Citizenship:  American
Dasala, 23 July 1998  To:  The Dasala's Prison Authorities.  By request of the Prison authorities, her is the visual inspection report of the corpse of the prisoner indicated as Julie Stevens, 30, executed today by slow-hanging.  As the causa mortis of the prisoner is obviously known and also taking into account that this Doctor lacks the necessary forensic skills, only the visual inspection was performed, not having been opened the body for inspection of the inner organs.  Visual inspection: The body brought to me belongs to a young female, caucasian, brown haired and green eyed, 1m72 of height, 52 kg. It is completely naked, clothes and restraints being removed by the guards immediately after lowering the corpse from the gallows, but with the strangling noose still around her neck, following the regulations which indicates specifically that she will have to be buried in that way.  The body looks slightly emaciated and showing recent bruises around the wrists, probably produced by the victim's struggle with the cuffs during her agony. The similar, but older, marks around her ankles are consistent with the kind produced by the continuous use of restraining shackles, as is costummary with prisoners sentenced to hard labour or to be executed. The callousness in the soles of both feet confirms that presumption, indicating that the prisoner was forced to go barefooted for some time as well, also a common practice in prison. Many other bruises and scars seem to be produced by bug bites. The prisoner's face is congested and livid, with her eyes bulging out of their sockets, the swollen cyanosed tongue protruding from her mouth and some traces of dry blood stained saliva around it. Though the noose was not completely removed, loosening it a little allows to observe the deep livid furrow provoked in the flesh by the rope during the strangulation of the patient. Though the neck looks stretched a few centimeters, this has been most certainly produced by elongation of the neck's muscles while the victim remained hanging in public exposure (for more than 2 hours) than to neck rupture. This cannot be assured, however, without opening the tissues and exposing the vertebrae. There is a small amount of feces between the buttocks and around the peri-anal area, mixed with some whitish liquid that looks like sperm. The anal sphincter presents signs of having being penetrated, prior to death, either by some sort of blunt instrument or more probably, by a human penis. All this indicates that the victim was sodomized before being taken to be executed, a common practice, unfortunately, with male and female prisoners alike. On the other hand, there are no evidences of intra vaginal semen or of penetration whatsoever.  Conclusions: With the data collected and having witnessed the whole execution process, it is possible to conclude that after being fully suspended by the neck, the prisoner Juli Stevens remained completely conscious for between 1 and 3 minutes, after which she still contorted and convulsed for several more already unconscious. The heart stopped beating 18 minutes after the hanging. All this said, we can conclude that the death by hanging of the prisoner Julie Stevens was slow and probably extremely painful, and together with all the ritual details implemented by the authorities to expose the victim to all humiliations as possible, certainly reached the goal of making her execution a deterrent for any possible similar offenders in the country,  Yours, respecfully,    XXXXXXX, MD