[Booker Dewitt]

Greetings. My name is Booker Dewitt. I'm thirteen years old and I want to turn myself in for crimes gone unpunished.


Once upon a time I was one mean bastard. Specifically, a delinquent. I enjoyed endlessly torturing my peers emotionally and physically while stealing whatever goods they had, and a whole lot of other things that could get you in very, very big trouble. Nothing sexual if that's what you're thinking.

Even worse, if I suspected someone was stupid enough to report my cruel acts then I would frame them. I was pretty much a sadist. I was also a Neo-Nazi. Yeah, heil Hitler and all that shit. Great, isn't it?

Now I feel absolutely horrible about the fact that I did all of this. No one besides my victims nobody else knows about them. My family thought of me as some sort of angel when in reality, it was a facade. I was a crook. So what did I do in order to seek redemption? I decided I would try to help people!


Whenever I tried to "help" someone it only caused that person harm. No matter how hard I tried to be a good person I always fucked up and became something of a bad luck charm. Highlights in my misguided attempt to help people includes unintentionally convincing a girl to kill herself. Fortunately she turned out okay but still.

None of this would of happened if I had just stopped. And yet on I marched. And for what? I wanted to feel like something I was not. A hero. I was so wrapped up in my hero delusion that I denied I was doing anything wrong. I was seeing only what I wanted to see – recognizing only the facts I desired to support my own version of reality – my own truth.

I say, it takes an incredibly stupid person to deny what's right in front of them. And if the truth is undeniable, you create your own. That right there is the quote of my life.

Nevertheless, it didn't matter to me. Until the day I came back to my senses I was living in my own fairy tale fantasy. Believe me, there's a lot of things I've done that I'm not proud of during that time period (understatement of the year.) When I talk to people about it they act as if I'm sort of monster. No matter how hard I try, I cannot do anything right. My only talent lies in causing pain. A jail cell is a suitable place for a monster like me. Is that right, or no? I mean, I can't live this lie forever.