Out of Spite. “Life is a storm, my friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when the storm comes.” (IMDB 1) I’ve seen my cell walls many times, I’ve also seen the dim sunlight as it enters in through the slits they call windows. I’ve stopped worrying about time. Here, time is all I have. You’d think I messed it up; in your mind I surely killed a man or raped a child. Let me tell you something, that’s not far from the truth. “There are 72,519 stones in my walls, but I haven’t named them yet” (IMDB 1)
It was 1987, I had 20 years old. I had recently moved from Poughkeepsie to the big city, I wanted to become a writer, a famous one. Little I knew I’d be doing my writing in a cell, surrounded by filth. I was a careless young man, some girls even said I was good looking, that perhaps if writing failed I could try acting. Little I knew that New York chews and spits writers for a living, and that what I was trying wasn’t new. I knew a lot of them, guys with impeccable manners, and girls with gorgeous bodies; they all tried to be famous in the big city.
Some people even made bank with us, young aspiring writers, offering us literary deals only if we gave them money in advance. I was fooled one but I will never be fooled again, or that’s what I thought. Her name was Marnie, she was 35 at the time. A stunning brunette that said she could turn me into a famous writer. She had the connections;…
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