Océane's Blog Post

The name’s William Zupkoski. You may be wondering how terrible my parents must have been at their job in order to raise someone who is convicted with up to a hundred and forty years in prison for forty charges of armed robbery and assault. And who is about to commit a murder, in well, just a few hours. Turns out, my parents were pretty decent as far as parents go. My mom was warm and inviting, like the sunrise. When I was a child, and would fall off my bike, my mom would pick me up gingerly and carry me all the way home. She smelled of a hard day’s work, with a hint of cinnamon. She would lay me down on my bed, and my head would lay on the stiff mattress and rotting wood bed frame. She would dab a bit of rubbing alcohol on my scratches, and when the sting of the alcohol sprung tears to my eyes, she would coddle me with hugs and kisses. The thing I remember the most about her was the apple pie she would make each day on my birthday before the accident. Each bite was an explosion of tart, sweet, and caramelized apple filling with flaky and buttery crust. The last time I tasted that pie was when I was seven years old, and I will never forget the flavor.

My dad was like the time of day when the sun was the strongest, and the highest in the sky. I didn’t see him often, most of his hours were consumed by endless labor. I couldn’t tell you what he did, I was too young to remember. All I know is when he would come back from work he would collapse on our rundown couch without even removing his ancient, muddied boots. He wore the exact same outfit everyday: ripped brown jacket, tattered white shirt, thick brown pants. Although he was absent from most of my childhood, he took pride in my accomplishments. When I did well in school, he congratulated me. His booming voice beamed with pride, his signature pat on the back was firm and steady. Of course, that was before the light left his eyes.

And how could I leave out my little sister. She was the sun itself. Everything revolved around her. She was my mother’s angel, my father’s pride, my best friend. She loved everything more than herself. Especially animals. I remember when my sister found an abandoned dog with two missing legs, a pelt full of fleas, and a torn eye on the side of the road. She insisted on bringing him home and taking care of him. She fed him portions of her food, even though she barely had enough to eat herself. And so when the accident happened- when she ran into the road to save a stray turtle from being hit by a car and took the blow instead- all of our lives ended. My mother disappeared into her room until the day she died, because why would she go outside if there was no sun to greet her? My father drank himself half to death each night, each day wishing it was him instead.

I guess that left me to be the sunset. I mark the end of light hitting upon the Earth. I packed my things and abandoned my family once it was clear they couldn’t provide for me. I don’t blame them and I never will. They were struck with grief, how could they possibly take care of a child? In order to get by, I had to beg on street corners. I wished there would be another soul on this planet like my sister’s, someone kind enough to take me home with them and share some of their meals. It was, however, becoming quite obvious that I needed to steal to live. I started with small things: food, water, cheap clothes. But when you start, you can’t stop. And when you base your whole life off of stealing things, big and small, you end up in prison. I didn’t know that at the time. 

Which brings me here. About to murder someone in cellblock 10. I would suggest you cover your eyes for this bit.