![]() ![]() I even knew six chicks who one by one successfully hung themselves within those fifteen years I served. I knew women who cut themselves, beat themselves, begged other inmates for their meds and swallowed a handful of game- changing pills in one gulp. Fifteen years on lock, I knew chicks who chased death, thought it was the better option over the rough lives they were living. I don’t have no big fear of death, never really even thought about it. I, Winter Santiaga, am the one who got shot dead. ![]() I can’t even hear the howl of the wind, which normally is so loud upstate New York where I was locked up, that we could hear it from inside the prison walls, depending on where we were in the building. ![]() I don’t hear the director calling out “Cut!” after first having called out “Action!” I don’t hear the cheers, shout outs, or big ups from the VIP crowd, who I know had gathered, because I am the one who arranged their VIP passes to be the only ones invited to accompany the film crew on my prison release day. ![]() I don’t hear no cops calling out bullshit commands, like freeze! I don’t hear the scream of the ambulance or the swift feet of the curious running to the scene of the incident. But after these three shots, I don’t hear no clap back, running feet, or screeching police sirens. niggas, gunshots fired anywhere in the world means pay attention motherfuckers. No matter whose finger is on the trigger, a nigga vs. Gunshots! Brooklyn born, I know the sound. ![]()
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