FINAL HOUR

Suppose you knew you had just one more precious hour left to live; that your existence on earth was definitely going to end in sixty minutes. So you ask for a piece of paper and a pen, with which to compose your final words. Try to fit every subtle nuance about your life within the eight-and-a-half by eleven inch perimeter-- use both sides if you like.
Could you sit like a Zen saint and manage to say it all in one sweet little Haiku? Or would you ask for more paper, hoping to stave off the unwanted advances of The End Man with some legal loophole? Could you sit and just compose, or would you pace the room madly, checking your watch every minute, sobbing and gasping for air?
Would you scream and wail about how life was unfair to you and how you wish you had more time? I guess that's what it's all about in the end: time. How much you have, how you spend it. It's like money. And no one knows what determines who gets how much.
These are the final words of a human life. With each death comes the end of yet another unexplored universe.
Unread books. Unclimbed mountains. Love and loss. What does it all mean now? The times you allowed doubt to cloud your mind and weigh you down. The useless hate you felt. Would this final hour be your greatest teacher? Could you finally sit and learn?
You've used up three-fourths of the page, now. You're almost done. Is there anyone you'd like to say goodbye to? Fifteen minutes from now they will open the door and lead you down the hall and do something to you so horrifically traumatic that it will shove your mortal soul right out of your body. You will not leave that room alive. Your body will lose bowel control, and they will drag or carry your shell back out and place it in the ground.
You're done.
So this is it. If you can remember the names of the people you have hurt, now would be the best time to apologize. Maybe they will hear you, maybe they won't.
“Please forgive me,” you cry, “and please take every precaution not to wind up in this terrible room. Please don't follow me here.” You cry out to your god, unable to hold your composure. This can't be happening.
This is it. The last paragraph you will ever write. They are gathering outside now, making hushed small talk in the hallway beyond the door about their plans to hit the bar for a cold one after work. They make small talk about your death.
Ironically, you despise small talk.
They are opening the door now, standing over your shoulder, clearing their throats. You stand up and give someone the paper. Or maybe you just fold it and keep it in your pocket, knowing that when the voltage is applied in a minute or two, it will brown along the edges and possibly burst into flames.
But I promise you one thing: they didn't count on the pound-and-a-half of gunpowder you ingested.