The Black Book, Dansy
“Would you like to tell us what really happened? And what you were doing with all that money we found on you.” The office said, placing the tape recorder in the middle of the table. I stared at that table for a while, cold and shining. The officer’s mug sat there, the words NYPD printed on the side; his aging coffee gone cold. “This is it” he says, “this is the moment to tell your story.” I smirked and replied, “A story...that’s a funny thing to call it considering the circumstances. Some might call it more of a tragedy. But you know, before a tragedy occurs, before the mistake that will end your life is made, there is a moment of hope. This moment is but a breath of time in length—that is all the time life ever gives you to choose—and, win or lose, you will live with all the weight of the decision. So maybe it should be called hope; some people call it sin.
