Later that day, I helped bring down the mob families, both of them. I don’t remember how fast it happened, it being no more than a blur. After hours of pain in the razzer department, I decided to help them out. As long as I stayed cool, I could pull it off, and get on with my life, going straight again.
I have tried to adapt as I write this journal. This journal that happens to be my safe, sacred haven. Without it, I’d be knackered and away in the head. So much I owe to this simple notebook.
They would’ve confiscated this notebook had I not demanded I keep it or they would not find the families. Might I only hope that today is my last day eating straws out of the cup, and taking me life in me own hands every time I turn a corner.
I’ve prayed for survival, I’ve prayed for guidance. But most of all, for my family. There is no such thing as a thief who steals and gives to the poor, but today…and over the past few weeks…I have become one, one that works not for personal gain, or glory, but for my family. If anyone is to enter this journal after my death, might I say as a last note, and as an imparting saying: This is my story, and my life.