You sit there on the edge of your bed with an empty look on your face. Furrows of concern that weren’t there before the verdict was reached, have now made their way unto your face. A soft trembling accompany your arm as you release the tension with which it was forced down into the bed out of sheer stress. You lift it to rub your face. Before you in the room a table is set with the most wonderful dishes.
Dishes you never tasted and dishes you never even knew. Candles are lit to create the perfect atmosphere for you to enjoy, all as you asked for. Yourself you are dressed up in the very best of suits. Vine of the finest sort is in your cup. Beethoven’s 5th is playing as fate is knocking harder and harder on the door. You tilt your head and clench your fists. The same empty look on your face is now starring at the table. At the delicious meals. Even the most picky would find his way with this table. Pleasures to lift any starving soul out of the pit. But for your own destiny there is no remedy. You take a long, deep sigh. Shake your head. What pleasure is there in the finest dishes when you are dying? When your own death is carved in stone — soon quite literary so? What liberty is there in pleasure when you know it is soon ending? What delight is there in fancy meals when your guts and mind constantly keep working on an ever increasing awareness of the three shots being injected tomorrow? “Enjoy” the jailer had said as he left the room and locked. What an insult. What fool would sit down to feed in such a situation? What idiot could be occupied with pleasure in such circumstances? At the thought of it, you realize how bizarre a position you are in. All this splendid food on the most expensive service, and you can’t possibly find any enjoyment in it. The situation is getting more and more tense. The point of despair is long surpassed by now. Cortisols, adrenalins and the like are racing through your system at such high rates that you are starting to wonder if you at all will live through to the execution tomorrow morning. There really is nothing you can do to change anything. The sentence is passed, and all you can do is to wait for its fulfillment. You crawl on the floor and scratch your finger nails against the floor until blood decorate the situation with deep, dark red. Again. For hours you just lay there. Stare down into the floor on which you drivel. Gaze at the roof as if you saw directly into heaven’s secrets. Then. Finally you lift your head and stare down to your feet and the table of lookers beyond. You take a last deep sight, shake your shoulders, wipe off your by now dirty face of despair and walk over to the table. What fool sits down to have his fill in such a situation, you angrily mumble as you throw yourself over it all with the worst of manners.
If the last supper wasn’t already eaten during Passover in Palestine two thousand years ago, life is but a big insulting pleasure. Nothing but a last meal. What fool could sit down to enjoy it?