(This is a guest post from a friend who wishes to remain anonymous. I hope it gives you pause.)

The room was cold. Not cruel, just… indifferent.

White walls. Bright lights. The hum of fluorescent tubes. Not a chapel. Not a courtroom. Not Hell. Just a windowless, federally contracted execution chamber in the back of a privately run detention center in Texas.

The table was shaped like a cross. Not by design—at least, not officially. A long central plank padded in sterile vinyl, with two short extensions at shoulder height, each outfitted with broad leather restraints.

They laid him down with professional indifference. One guard to each limb. Strap, buckle, cinch. Left arm out, right arm out, body flat against the cold table— arms wide like wings, like surrender, like the very thing he had once been accused of defiling.

He hadn’t touched anyone. He hadn’t carried a weapon. He hadn’t shouted threats.

He flipped a donation kiosk in a megachurch lobby on Easter Sunday. Shattered it like a parable. Then spoke scripture calmly until security tackled him.

The officer who tackled him slipped, drew early, fired wildly. The second officer died instantly.

They called it felony murder.

The trial was swift. The defense was outmatched. The church offered prayers for the officer’s family. And then, quietly, for justice to be done.

It was.

The IV bag hung to his left. Clear. Efficient. The needle entered the inside of his wrist like a nail through open flesh. The nurse’s hands were gloved. His were not.

The straps at his wrists cut slightly into skin. Bloodless. But firm. Cruciform in silence.

A priest had been offered. He declined. The Bible had been offered. He declined.

Only one ritual remained.

“Any last words?” the warden asked. It was policy.

He looked straight up into the overhead lights. Not at the people. Not at the camera. Just at the light itself.

Then he said it:

“Dios mío, Dios mío, ¿por qué me has abandonado?”

No translation was given. No one asked.

The IV hissed. The line emptied. His arms, still outstretched, twitched once. Then stillness.

The technician marked the time.

He was dead.

---

Three days later, on a bright, clean Sunday, the megachurch was packed.

The new kiosk was reinforced glass, affixed to the floor. The collection bins were digital now. Swipe cards only.

The pastor wore a new mic. Security wore sidearms. A choir sang something upbeat and harmless. The sermon was on grace.

A child tugged at her mother’s sleeve during communion.

“Mama… who was that man? The one who flipped the table?”

Her mother hushed her.

But the question hung there, unanswered. Like a ghost. Like a seed. Like a curtain that never quite closed.

And somewhere deep in the crowd, someone quietly began to cry.