©2014 VICE Media LLC

    The VICE Channels

      Where Love Goes to Die

      February 1, 2012
      From the column 'Pen Pals'


      Click to enlargen

      My ex-girl wrote this letter to me as she sat in a cell across the hall at the county jail. We had only been locked up for about a week, but the level of misery we experienced is nearly impossible to describe. After almost one year of waiting to go to trial, she sold me out to save herself from other legal infractions she’d incurred. We developed ill will toward one another and I haven’t heard from her in about five years. Anyhow, the following is unedited and just a glimpse into what type of shit you go through when you get caught with a lot of drugs.

      Sat. 7:30 pm (early March ’06)

      Dear Baby Bert,

      I feel so sad that this had to happen to us. I can’t stop thinking of you. I miss you desperately. I wonder what will come of us? If I can get out soon w/ bail, I will take care of all the stuff in Brooklyn. I’ll at least get the bed and computer and turntables, speakers ‘n’ stuff. I can put it into storage. I’m sure I can get Wayne [her crackhead sugar daddy - Bert] to pay my car payment for me. I think I have to get a public defender, I don’t know what else to do. How will I get in touch w/ you? I need to know your parent’s phone # so I can find you always. I don’t want to break up. I know you ‘n’ I will be separated for a long time but I want u. I want to marry you and have delinquent children together. I think of your face and smile, but I want to cry. Why didn’t I kiss you goodbye? Why didn’t we stay at our new house? Woe is us. Do you cry? Feel lonely? Scared? Miss me? Why didn’t we just make love one more time? You standing, flexing in the mirror, or your trying to help me moisturize from across the room. There are so many things I remember about you so clearly that I can’t stop from running through my head. It weighs on my heart that I didn’t appreciate these things when I had the chance to show you how much I love you. So here I am in my cell, in my head, trapped alone without you. I hope we can stay in touch. I want to know everything. Please let me help you in any way I can. Do you have court w/ me? I am so sad baby I want to hug you, and kiss you and make you cuddle with me. I want you to taste my tears when you kiss my face. I want you to tell me you love me when you’re on top of me. Hear you promise me you’ll never leave me, and most of all whisper everything will be okay. But it won’t will it. I need u. I hope you think of me, please write. I have been dreaming of you. Its now Mon am @ 6:35. The CO jus came by and told me the time and now I lay. I’m starving, cold, and wish you were with me. I applied to a meeting w/ u as my co-def, but we’ll see. I have no money to buy stamps, so this may reach u when its old, but its my only release for the ache inside. I want to fill this pit in my heart, but I can’t. It’s Bert-shaped and there’s nothing in my cell that shape, so I close my eyes. I have u in my mind so u fill my heart and my eyes with tears. I’m not getting $ for bail says Mary. She visited yest. I’m fucked, but with my eyes closed ur w/ me. This is my only sheet of paper and there’s so much time to kill. I want to lick ur ear and see u do the ooh thing. XO UR MINE N I LOVE YOU!

      I’ve gone to prison for an extended period three times with three different females, and they all sucked massive dong, but the fact that this girl and I were arrested together caused extra unpleasant complications. She was so emotionally disturbed half the time that I don’t think things could’ve ever worked out for us anyway, and we were on a codependent cruise to bad news regardless of Johnny Law nabbing us. It is entirely possible that my trips to prison have saved my life.

      We were undeniably out of control in too many ways to explain, but against both of our better judgments we had moved to Brooklyn together and continued to sell drugs upstate. During a trip, in some inexplicable way, we got harassed by bored civilians and cops, got illegally searched, seized, and arrested, severely altering our lives. It’s so easy to say “fuck it, live life, take chances,” but one misstep produces such irreparable damages. I should’ve reconsidered some of my mottos.

      Por ejemplo, I was locked up with a kid who was driving around smoking a joint at dusk and hit a 40-year-old jogger, who was a father of three. The jogger died and the kid, who was only 20, is going to have a very difficult time ever living a normal life. For some reason, the courts showed leniency with him and he received a 21-month to 4-year sentence, for which he served about 3 years. He killed somebody. My dabbling in drugs never caused any direct harm that I know of, and I’ve done about six years of a 3-9 sentence for an ounce of coke.

      The irony of drugs is that I got addicted to selling them (and abusing them) because of the freedom it brought me. But ultimately it stripped me of much more than I deserved. The majority of people I know are unscathed from messing with drugs, and I’ve been too stubborn to quit for that reason, although there is the remote possibility that drugs can ruin lives. Definitely fucked my plans up, but also played a key part in some of my best times. Still, do I blame this girl for snitching on me and making up stories to the porkchops, or is it my fault for knowingly breaking the law, even though I had no concept of doing anything morally wrong? The whole thing was just totally unbonerable. Even though it’s fun to frolic balls-deep in the back door of what’s considered sane, sometimes it’s best to slow down and consider caution, ‘cause, on a bad day, the consequences of being stupid are just too severe.

      Previously - A Day on the Inside

      @burykill

      Comments