Lethal Quantities

By Paige P. Carranza

Nicolas Clark is a thirty-seven-year-old man who, after taking an innocent life, is serving time in Texas' Polunsky Prison unit. In this compelling story, Nick recounts the events that took place the year before his conviction that led him to commit his crime, landing him on Death Row

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387619900

Book preview

Lethal Quantities

LETHAL QUANTITIES

by

Paige P. Carranza

Lethal Quantities by Paige P. Carranza. Published by Paige P. Carranza

© 2018 Paige Carranza

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

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Cover by Paige P. Carranza

ISBN: 978-1-387-61835-4

Dedicated to my Mother.

Your love and hard work will always be my inspiration.

Thank you for always being my guide and my supporter.

Chapter 1

We often take for granted the little things in life.  A warm meal, a soft bed, the ability to keep our hearts beating and fill our lungs with air without having to think about it.  Most people don’t think twice about the stars or the sun or the universe that surrounds them.  They don’t think about how or why they exist.  We don’t often sit back and truly appreciate the people around us who love us and embrace our presence.  That is, not until it’s too late.  All I know, while I am here in my final moments, is that I regret not slowing down to appreciate life.  I spent so many countless years cursing my life, instead of discovering the purpose of it.

Here it is…my confession. I have made a terrible mistake. It was a momentary lapse of reason, and it has cost me my life. What do you do when you know that your biological hour glass is out of sand, only because the legal system has taken a gavel to its fragile glass containment? Truth be told, there isn’t much you can do. You just sit back and reminisce about what you have done to deserve the cold kisses of needles piercing your skin, thusly, ending your life.

My name is Nicholas Clark. I prefer Nick. I am thirty-seven, and living on death row. I can admit it; this is where I belong. I never had much. I was an alcoholic before I was put away. Nothing ever felt better than the slow, stabbing burn of whiskey possessing your throat. I was barred from local taverns for outstanding tabs, but no liquor store ever denied me what I so desperately craved. I drank anything I could get my hands on, from miniature bottles to twenty-four-ounce beer cans, to wine, to tequila.

Every now and then, an evening of bumming with a bottle wasn’t enough.  I wanted more. I needed more. When I was twenty-two I was introduced to crystal meth.  Talk about beauty!   While the whiskey burns felt great, the white cloud was the closest thing to heaven I have ever laid my eyes on.  Breathing it in, feeling the high grow within me, then releasing it to form a haze unlike all else.  Nothing could compare.  I miss it so much.  I miss those sleepless nights of euphoric numbness, where the world went quiet and it was just me.  I know I probably sound insane, but for the last fifteen years I have listened to nothing but screams of terror, anger, debilitating sadness, and of course…death.  Every single time I look down, I see bloody hands and go back to a place I couldn’t immediately remember. 

My life was never simple.  My mother raised me on her own for eighteen years. My father was the biggest deadbeat you’d ever know.  He was never involved with me.  We met once, when I was eleven.  I’ll never forget the cringe on his face when he first looked at me, or the way my mother begged him to just…try.  I felt like I was roadkill poisoning the glory of his fat wallet. 

Hey, Daddy, let’s play catch! Mommy got me this cool new nerf ball!

He rolled his eyes and pulled a joint out of his pocket.  I sat quietly and watched as his tongue glided across the side of it, before lighting it up with his black BIC lighter. 

Daddy, that smells funny.

He glared at me with a menacing grin, looked around for my mother, then put his arm around my shoulders.  "Oh yeah? It smells funny? Wait’ll you see how it feels."  He squeezed my cheeks together to make my lips part.  My teeth pressed so hard to the inside of my cheeks that they bled.  He shoved the joint into my mouth as I screamed and forced me to smoke it. 

Come on, you little shit! Don’t waste it! Hold it in!  It felt like bees were trying to escape my esophagus, but I did as he said.  I was so desperate to make a good impression.  All I remember after that was an insatiable hunger, being really sleepy with a strong desire to watch cartoons and waking up to my mother sobbing with a bloody and broken nose.  From that moment on, I was changed.  I felt a hate that a young boy should never feel.  I guess you could say, I wanted to kill him. 

I found out a lot about my father the year following the incident.  For starters, he was very wealthy.  He owned two cars, both of which he paid for with cash.  He lived in a very large house and had a lot of maids who would fold his laundry after soaking his bed.  Meanwhile, my mother worked three jobs.  She always had dark circles and bags under her eyes which she tried to cover with makeup.  Dinner was always something along the lines of peanut butter and jelly or spaghetti with meat sauce.  How is that fair?  How is it that a measly three hundred dollars a month allows a man to live beyond comfortably while his child and ex-girlfriend struggle to survive?  His main excuse was I don’t see myself as a father…never did and never will. 

I dropped out of high school at the age of sixteen because that is when I was allowed to work. My first job was washing dishes at a pizza place in the mall.  Glorifying, isn’t it?  I worked there for two years before I got caught smoking pot in the break room.  Then, I got an apprenticeship at a garage for a year before my boss was confident enough to let me be an under the table mechanic.  I was laid off shortly after. 

Money got tight.  I had to take action, so I sold weed for a while.  Selling pot always brought home the bread.  When I started pushing crack, we were even more better off.  Hell, I was even able to get my mom a hooptie just to get her to and from work.  My mother never asked how I got my money, but I always felt like she knew.  She stayed quiet even though I knew it broke her heart.  Everything was great until I broke the number one rule of dealing…never get high on your own supply.  It caused intense problems between my supplier and me.  A few beatings, and a shot to the arm later, we parted ways and I was really financially fucked.  All I wanted to do was drink.  Drink until I died.  What was the point of living anyway?  I was doing nothing but stressing out my poor mother, and my father’s payments stopped when I turned eighteen. 

The year before I was arrested my mother was diagnosed with stage four leukemia.  She was becoming more sick day after day and she couldn’t handle the three jobs anymore.  She declined treatment because of lack of insurance and lack of will to fight it.  I begged her to see a doctor anyway.  His exact words were, You have less than six months. I’m so sorry.

I never understood his apology.  How could his apology fix the fact that I was losing the only person who ever loved me?  She always looked at me with the deepest love in her sullen blue eyes.  I was worth it to her.  I was worth every sleepless night, every hunger pain, every drop of blood, sweat, and tears. I was the man to her that no man ever was.  I stood by her every step of the way, throwing my life on the line to give her the slightest moment of peace.  Then suddenly, as some sick cruel joke, she was being taken away.  If my dad was around, she wouldn’t have had to work so hard.  She could have seen a doctor sooner.  We could have done something.  No, it was too late for would have, could have, should have.  I broke down into tears.  How could you be so sorry?  With my head cradled into my palms, I cried.  I felt the touch of her cold, calloused hand upon mine.  When I looked up at her, she had a slight smile on her face, and tears in her tired eyes. 

Nick, don’t be afraid.  She whispered.

Momma, you’re dying! I can’t do this without you.

"Yes, you can, baby.