The Easy Way, or the Hard Way

3:42 AM – Death Watch Cell, Livingston, Texas

The buzzing overhead light never shuts off. Lisa Tucker hasn’t slept in what feels like a week. The walls around her, sickly pale green, pulse like lungs in her periphery. She’s pacing the 6x9 cell barefoot, whispering to herself, rehearsing grievances as though standing trial all over again.

They say she’s volatile now. Mad. A danger to herself, to others. But she knows the truth.

“They’re scared of women who fight,” she mutters, scratching her scalp beneath the greasy strands of brown hair she hasn’t brushed in days. “They’re scared of the ones who don’t lie down and beg for mercy.”

Her fingers tremble as she presses them against the small, wire-meshed window. There’s no view, just the corridor where guards occasionally drift by, peeking in. It’s a dead hallway, silent but for the constant hum of fluorescent tubes.

She knows what's coming. The rituals. The pageantry of murder. They think if they do it clinically, cleanly, it isn’t barbaric.

4:13 AM – Last Meal

A tray slides through the slot. A cheeseburger, extra onions. Dr. Pepper in a paper cup. No fries. “You think I want to die with onion breath?” she yells out.

No response. Just retreating footsteps. Lisa slaps the tray to the floor and watches the soda soak into the grout between the tiles. “I ain’t partaking in their hospitality,” she growls, pacing again.

She’s already wearing the white cotton uniform. No underwire. No laces. No jewelry. She scratches at the elastic waistband. “They think I’m gonna go quiet, like a good dog. No, sir. Lisa Marie Tucker ain’t going quiet.”

4:55 AM – Shower and Dressing Protocol

The two guards assigned to her, Officer Medina and Officer Lutz, enter the cellblock. Medina calls her name. Lutz is holding a folded adult diaper, plastic wrap still on it.

“Time to prep,” Medina says, voice flat. Like this is an oil change. “You touch me and I’ll bite your damn hands off,” Lisa snaps. They wait. They always wait. Eventually, she folds. She always folds.

In the shower, the water is lukewarm. Chlorine and iron stink in the steam. She runs her hands down her body—thin now, all bones and skin. Her ribs are like piano keys. Afterward, they dry her, then help her into the fresh gown—white, open in the back. Lisa resists the diaper, slapping it away twice before finally relenting.

“They're afraid I'll soil myself in death,” she laughs. “But I haven’t been scared since that bastard screamed in the fire.”

5:42 AM – The Warden’s Visit

Warden Clemens appears like a shadow at her door. A clipboard. Glasses. He looks at her like she’s a form to fill out.

“Ms. Tucker,” he says. “As per protocol, I’m here to explain the execution procedure. You’ll be escorted to the chamber by a team. Once secured, you may give a final statement. A lethal injection of pentobarbital will be administered. You’ll lose consciousness in under thirty seconds. Death will follow in approximately seven to nine minutes.”

Lisa stares him down. “Do you hear yourself? Like you’re explaining a new mattress.”

The warden says nothing.

“You ever watched a man burn to death?” she asks, leaning toward the mesh. “He tried to crawl, Clemens. He tried to open the front door, but I locked it. Locked it tight. I wanted to see if the insurance money was worth watching him melt.”

Clemens only adjusts his glasses. “Do you wish to make a final statement?”

“I am the final statement.”

6:12 AM – The Walk

They come in a line, like mourners.

Two guards. A chaplain. A witness from the state attorney’s office. The warden. They surround her, not quite touching. Lisa walks barefoot. Her feet slap against the cold concrete, and she notices how quiet everyone is, like she’s a bride being walked down the aisle.

She stares at the fluorescent light overhead. It buzzes. She imagines it will be the last thing she hears.

6:17 AM – The Death Chamber

The room is cold. Everything is green. The table in the center is wide, padded, with leather straps across it—wrists, ankles, biceps, thighs.

Lisa lies back. Her gown bunches beneath her. One guard straps her left arm. Another fastens her legs. The IV team approaches. She turns her head and sees the observation window—families of both sides behind glass. Silent watchers.

“You’re all voyeurs,” she hisses.

The chaplain stands near her head, reciting a psalm. She drowns it out, thinking instead of the fire. The glow behind the windows. The way Randall pounded on the wall like a trapped animal. He should’ve let her leave when she asked. Should’ve signed the divorce. Should’ve stopped cheating.

The IV punctures her skin. Cold spreads into her veins.

“You have any last words?” a voice asks.

Lisa lifts her head slightly. “The state has no right to kill me. I am sovereign. I don’t belong to Texas, or America, or any goddamn thing you put in a book.”

Silence.

The plunger depresses. Pentobarbital floods her bloodstream. The world turns soft, slow, muffled. Her eyes blink once. Then again. Then stop.

6:26 AM – Time of Death

Declared by prison medical staff.

Lisa Tucker, convicted arsonist, murderer, fraudster, self-proclaimed sovereign citizen, was pronounced dead. She left no will. No surviving children. No apologies. Just charred remains of a house. A trail of letters laced with vitriol. And a state that added one more body to its ledger.

The chamber is cleaned. The straps are wiped down.

Another inmate will arrive here one day soon. And the lights will keep buzzing.