My Last Day On Earth
They say you should never ask questions that only a dead man can answer. But what if you could answer them? What if you could remember every detail of your death and aftermath? What if you continue to die over and over again?
I died for the first time at around 4.00 p.m. on 29th October 1997. It was a beautiful Autumn day, a Wednesday. I had prepared an appetising dinner for my family consisting of seasoned chicken breast, rice pilaf and fresh steamed broccoli drizzled with browned butter. I had picked up my wife from work and our toddler son from day-care. Our two pre-teen daughters arrived home from their day and were washing up before we sat down to supper. The meal was destined to go to waste as my family would dine on misery that night.
The doorbell rang accompanied by a loud knock as the dread that I had been feeling all day began to be realised. When I opened the door I was met by several police officers. One asked that I step outside as he placed me in handcuffs and arrested me for murder.
My toddler son ran after me only to be stopped by the outer glass door. Pressed against it, he wailed as his arms reached out for my embrace. After I was placed in the back seat of an unmarked cruiser, I noticed that my quiet middle class neighbourhood had been invaded by a small army of heavily armed police. Our neighbours came outside and watched tensely. I peered up towards my house and observed my two daughters looking out from the upstairs windows, crying and confused. My wife was stunned and numb. I never had a chance to hug or kiss them or to say goodbye. I never would ever again.
The police drove me away to the morgue over 35 miles away in another county, where I would be autopsied every day for the next year.
I later learned from my wife that police tore our home apart in search of evidence that never existed, even breaking toys apart as my family watched.
I had been a respected operations manager and investigator for twenty years, for private security, restaurant and retail companies. I had no criminal record. I was loved and respected by family, friends and employers.
Even before the police realised they had made a mistake, they targeted the fragile state of my family and exploited their trauma. There was no turning back. As documented in their own reports, and in letters from my wife, they aggressively initiated the process of turning my family against me with known lies.
I would die thousands of times since that Fall day in 1997, even after the final two autopsies they called 'trials' in 1998. They dissected me as I watched in their kangaroo court, removing my organs one at a time. They saved my heart for last. With demonic precision they sliced it into pieces.
I observe now from my corpse as I ask questions that only a dead man can answer. The manner of my death was homicide. The official cause of my demise was multiple rounds of perjury. No-one has been charged. The case remains open.
Kevin Brian Dowling, Pennsylvania
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In a Death Row prisoner‘s own words:
“You are so right, people like Helene don‘t come along too often in this crazy world. I just replied to her letter. She stood by my side when darkness set upon me and gave me warmth when life felt so cold. I‘m forever grateful for her love and support.”
“You are so right, people like Helene don‘t come along too often in this crazy world. I just replied to her letter. She stood by my side when darkness set upon me and gave me warmth when life felt so cold. I‘m forever grateful for her love and support.”
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