Personal Narrative-State Prison

My door creaks open and my footsteps sound across the floor. I took off my old cold and damp leather coat and let it land on the floor. I made my way to the kitchen looking for the flask I had hidden in my cabinet drawer. I walk slowly towards my tiny wooden kitchen table. I didn’t even bother turning on the lights. I haven’t paid last month’s utilities rent. In front of me was a mountain of unopened mail, probably from my bank stating I pass overdue. The floor was covered with dirt and cheap empty beer cans. What is the point of all this? I pondered to myself. I lost my job and have nowhere to turn. I grabbed the flask and drank the vile room temperate liquid in one movement. It begins to burn my throat and continues to flow down like the

“What the hell is this?” I don’t recall this light blue envelope before. It stokes me hard yet, similar from the past. A letter from my father sent from the state prison in New Jersey. I took the envelope in my hands rather surprised but, amused by the sight. “After twenty-five years, you now choose to take interest in me, old man.” I snickered. I could tell it was him by his handwriting. He wrote my address in the calligraphic font known as Aphrodite slim pro. How do I still know this? It’s because he tried to teach it to me before he disappeared from the face of the earth, or at least is how my mother would say it. I rip the last two ends of the envelope and begin to read the

I was a professional taker. It was a glorified profession of mine since I could remember. I was born in Cornwall England, living in an urban town. My family was poor and the food was hard to come by. It was always the big men taking everything from the food banks, leaving many families with nothing to eat. This began to change my view. I realized only takers succeed in the world.

I am not a good father either. This is true. I remember my father took me on one of his errands because it happens to take your child to work day. We went to an exotic pet shop in Chinatown and there he stole Oviparous snake eggs. I got distracted by looking at the dogs and wander off. He was so custom of doing his job alone that he left me behind and abandoned me for Feng Shui Chinese coins from the Chinese pawn shop across the street.

I didn’t realize it before, but now I am certain that our family is cursed. I recall summoning to steal the Croesus treasure for New York’s Metropolitan Museum. At the time, I believed this would be my last job and our family can be rich. Your mother agreed and approved the plan. She wants what was best for all of