Why I Write

Why I Write



I write because I can; because up to 18 months ago I had neither the ability nor desire to. Life works in mysterious ways, and sitting in the courtroom that day, I realised that a sentence could both hold power over me and empower me. When the jury delivered a verdict of the death penalty, I was led away in handcuffs to live out the rest of my days in what can only be described as a personal hell, forced to behave like an animal in order to gain respect in the perverted hierarchy that is prison.



I learned early on that actions speak louder than words; with one piercing stare, I could force a kid twice my age to hand over his lunch money, with a curl of my fist an elderly woman would show me to where she hid her cash and with a simple tug of my finger I could take a life away. Actions, as everyone knows, have consequences, and, given that my wife would have to raise my children without me, that my kids would have to grow up without a father, the sensitive, caring side of me that I had worked so hard to repress the past few decades of my life, began to wonder what legacy I would leave them with.



A legacy of newspaper clippings of stories exaggerated and sometimes fabricated by the media, their headlines emblazoned in big, black, bold letters across a front page in a bid to increase sales and provide for their children,  blogs littered with murderous phrases, anonymous comments dripping with the venom that would eventually course through my veins to kill me, biographies claiming that I was the most evil man alive and prayers for the people whose lives I had taken.



I established my reputation as a gang leader of one of the most notorious gangs in the prison, the Toxicten.  Given this reputation, I offered protection services to my fellow inmates for a fee, determined by me. For the majority of the inmates, I accepted cash, weapons, useful information about other inmates and similar forms of payment. For one of the inmates, however, I made an exception. He was a young English professor, admitted to the prison 3 months after I was delivered my sentence, jailed for dealing drugs to his students. It seemed to me, from his nervous and terrified demeanor, that he just got caught up in the wrong circles and would never survive amongst the savage vultures that circled him like he was a piece of fresh meat. I offered him my services, in return for lessons in reading and writing, which he kept secret due to my violent descriptions of the consequences if he broke his silence.



Over the past 15 months, I have learned to read and write and began writing letters to my wife and children a few months ago in which I relay all of the things about myself that they do not read in the papers. Of course, I still rely on my actions too, using my gang to silence anyone who attempts to betray my secret.