January 5th
Back in my youth, I was a nobody. I guess you could say I am still a nobody. A nobody with a moderate amount of skill and a whole lot of energy. I'm not bouncing off the walls crazy, but people have mentioned I can be overwhelming, at times. I guess this is probably why I don't have a boyfriend, and no one wants to marry me. I'm a regular Bonnie without a Clyde except I don't kill people.
I'm an adult now but when my life changed for the worst, I was shortly out of high school. How stupid was I to think my life would work for me and not against me. How stupid was I to believe the older I got, the easier it would get. My age was in my mid-twenties. I give myself the age of around twenty-four or twenty-five when I was liked to run at night. I used to do a lot of things at night. I went out without a care in the world. I thought I was invincible. There are freak murders that happen between strangers. I can name a few famous ones that stood out the most with me, but I won't to not bring any misunderstood feelings for the relatives and friends still alive. I doubt they will read this, but you never know. Besides, I came to be semi-famous myself, and for all the wrong reasons.
I had recently moved and during one of my nightly runs with the headphones on, I know, I saw an outline of a person carrying another person. It wasn't in my imagination as the lawyer would claim later during the trial. I had the full backing of the police detectives investigating this murder and we remained friends after the jury was dismissed and the verdict was read. I was stupid to not take off my headphones right away, but eventually I did and that is when I heard shoes walking across dried grass. It was during the beginning of fall and some of the leaves on the trees had already turned brilliant oranges and reds. This led to some of them falling and after a few days of being blown around by the mild winds, they became less pliable. It's the brittle leaves that make those crunchy noises under shoes and this was what I heard. The crunch, oh the crunch.
Upon hearing crunching leaves, I stopped running and stood still. The first thing that went through my mind was what had happened. Was this person drunk, what I assumed was a woman, as I saw her arm hanging down. I imagined it was swaying back and forth as the man carried her away. My instinct was to go to her and see if she needed help but what could I do against a man much bigger than me. I know this because he stood around six feet tall and was not the size of a bodybuilder but muscular enough to knock me down and then some.
I wanted to be that woman in between the layers of a great tasting sandwich. I know it's not ideal. No one wants to be gobbled up and washed down with a tall glass of milk or can of soda. Maybe this isn't the right example to use. I suppose I wanted to be a great masterpiece. An artist would paint me under the best lighting, in the prettiest of dresses, and with my lovely treasures beside me like a companion dog. I might also have a guard dog on the other side of me. It's difficult to be the envy of the town. When this artist was done with his masterpiece, he would sell it to the highest bidder. Maybe to my knight in shining armor or my secret admirer wanting to get as close to me as possible without letting me know his identity. A woman can dream, right? I don't think it's too much to ask to be in the spotlight for a little bit.
I am in none of these examples where people find me attractive or worthy. This belonged to the woman that was murdered, and how I am involved is by default only. Well guess what honey, I'm not asking for any fucking sympathy. What I am asking for is you to read what I wrote. There's some good stuff in here. In all seriousness, there's some good shit in this. It's up to you if you want to read it. There's no skin off my nose if you don't read it. Just because I never went to college, or a university doesn't mean I'm stupid. I'd say most of the homeless people are just as smart as anyone else. They just got a raw deal.
I'm not saying I got a raw deal like they did, but I had my own suffering growing up. My mommy died when I was young. Sure, it wasn't easy on my daddy after she was gone. His beatings started before she died, but after, watch out! He hit me constantly, closed fist and open hand. Sometimes at the same time. Again, I'm not looking for any kind of sympathy. I was dealt the hand God intended.
Since I have a lot of time to burn, I've done a fair share of reading. Because of this, I decided to write a book of my own. This is it. Right here, right now. This is fucking it. I don't know how other writers do it, but I'm smart enough to know there has to be a beginning, middle, and ending of some sort. It's like the movies too. You have the opening scene that leads to another scene and soon you're halfway done with the movie and all you have left is the end. Some of the endings are good and some are terrible. Some end on a high note. I like the ones that end of a low note. It mirrors reality for me and the rest of the men in this place.
After my mommy died, I acted out even more. I was an unruly child. I was tall and large for my age. I wasn't fat, that only came later, but other kids feared me like I feared my daddy when I came home from school. If you haven't realized by reading this, I was born in the South. I'm not going to tell what state because I need to protect my sister. She's already dealt with reporters many times and every time some idiot wants to bring up my past crimes, her family must suffer again for my wrongdoings. It's not fair she has to deal with this, but I understand it's not fair to my victims either.
I didn't write this to prove my innocence. I know I'm guilty. Trust me, I belong here. I'll be the first one to shout out loud that I don't deserve to be free in a crowd. Most authors I have read begins a story of a person outside in nature or inside a room. Whether there is another person with him or her, it doesn't matter in the whole scheme of things. The protagonist is going to either keep living or die. The antagonist will either be loved, hated, or both. But what if the author doesn't know shit and doesn't know what to write about. There's a saying that you write what you know even if it's boring. A reader can tell if the writer isn't sincere in what they write about and won't get past the first page. They might even throw the book in the garbage or set it on fire.
No comments:
Post a Comment