The Beat Within

I murdered him. I stabbed him fifty-one times in his sleep, and now his name likely evokes in people close to him funny, warm and wonderful memories of a man they still love. And then it evokes pain because they remember, they realize suddenly after a happy thought and a smile that he was brutally taken from them for no real reason. Their guts wrench hard. They are saddened. They are angered. They remember that they are lonely and hurting without the treasured piece of their lives that I so callously took from them – their son, their brother, their friend, Carlos. “It wasn’t his time!” they yell furiously all at God and at me and at nobody… But only nobody hears them.

Obviously, I cannot return that precious heart-piece to them. I cannot bring Carlos back – no matter that I wish more desperately every day that I could. In fact, there is nothing I can ever do to make up for this horrible wrong I committed, I know, or for all the harm I’ve caused. Not with my own blood. Not with a lifetime in prison. For there is no justice for murder. So there is definitely no way for me to justify my actions. Though I have spent many years behind these walls trying do that exactly.

Twenty years ago, as I attended my father’s funeral I was overwhelmed with grief. My way of coping with my feelings was to hold them in. I believed that it was a sign of weakness to cry and to talk about my feelings of loss and grief. I believed it was easier to mask the pain I felt by getting high. 

However, those feeling combined with the other hurts and pains I had bottled up over the years, led me to make the horrific, violent decision to hurt others. I believed that no one cared, and no one understood me. 

I was hurting, plus I wanted others to feel the pain I was feeling. As a result, I murdered two innocent human beings and was sentenced to thirty-four years-to-life. I thought my feelings of past traumas and loss would never go away. 

by Bobby Bostic As I sit back and meditate on the many mistakes that I have made in life, I contemplate on the advice that I would give to my younger self. Then again, I wonder would he listen? My fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen-year-old self, thought he had it all figured out. He rebelled against adults, because in his young mind they didn’t know what they were talking about. How could they, since they couldn’t see the world through his eyes. Ironically, now that I am older I see things differently. When we are young we somehow put it in our