The guards open my cell and smile. It was time. The sick bastards had been gloating these past few weeks, reminding me every day how I was going to be executed under the new law.

I am the only inmate in this prison, and one of the last inmates left in this godforsaken country. Ever since Order #113 passed, national crime rates plummeted, and most prisons have shut down. Our country is being hailed as the first to nearly wipe out crime across the globe as nearly every other country has followed suit and implemented the proposed changes, citing the success of our new approach to the rights of criminals.

Many had fought against the proposed changes, saying that it was considered cruel and unusual, and goes against the very moral standards our country had been founded upon. Fear, it seems, is too powerful a deterrent to overlook and their pleas ultimately meant nothing.

The warden is here himself. At least somebody decided to have some fucking balls around here. I punch one of the guards in the eye socket, and feel his orbital give way under the force. This gives me the time I need to spit in that sonofabitch warden's eyes and scream at him while the other guards grip me under the arms and legs and carry me to face what I know will kill me.

Despite the assurances of others that say some of the larger prisoners were free to go when they were found to live through their ordeals, I also know from the reports that their minds had almost completely shut down from the toll their bodies took and died soon after.

"Don't worry, you'll be sorry soon enough." One of the guards rasps in my ear as he hammers his fist into my gut, nearly causing me to vomit.

I'm taken to a room bereft of anything except a table, chair, and news camera. This is going to be televised to the world, and not a soul had the balls to show up and watch me in person.

Fucking cowards.

My legs are bound to the chair, which I regrettably find is bolted to the floor directly in front of the table. The device placed on my head is an abomination - a kind of skull cap with a somewhat intricate wiring system that leads into my mouth with the express purpose to force it open and shut at will. I try to fight it, but as the metal is being forced against my teeth and gums, the pain and taste of blood causes me to comply. The screws are tightened, and tested to the guards' and warden's satisfaction.

My suddenly somber mood catches the attention of one of the guards.

"Looks like you really are sorry now, son."

I hate to admit it, but he's right. It really wasn't until that moment that I truly felt remorse for what I had done, but it was there all the same. I hear the door behind me open, and something is being wheeled in. I can't turn my head enough to see, but I already know what it is.

The frozen body of my wife is placed on the table in front of me, and I feel the spreading warmth of my own urine spread through my uniform as the gravity of the situation takes hold. Two guards are left beside me, as the light of the camera flicks on and begins the broadcast. They are here to ensure my sentence is carried out to the end, even if it's not by my own hands.

They hand me my fork and knife, and my punishment begins.

Ultimately, no matter how much the civilized world tried to fight Order #113 on my behalf, it was a universally accepted fact that you ate what you killed.