When I came to I was in a hospital. I stayed there for a couple of days, unable to get any news about Two Bit out of the doctors, and under orders to stay in bed because of the amount of blood I lost.
On the third day of my stay in the bleak, strange-smelling hospital I was visited by police, who told me that I would be standing in court, under trial for repeated cases of arson and one charge of manslaughter.
The trial went by quickly. Seventeen Socs testified against me, and no Greasers turned up- I guessed the Socs had scared them all off, or beaten them up. I was given a conditional life sentence and jailed.
Finding that I had little in common with the hardened criminals I was living with, I stayed apart from them, and took to writing- sometimes fiction, and sometimes I wrote up accounts of my experiences. It never really mattered to me precisely what I wrote- it was just something to keep my mind off the boredom, depression and general feeling of injustice.
I know life isn't fair, but I can't do anything about it. Not now. Maybe I could have if things had turned out differently, but they didn't. This is how things are, and there's nothing I can do now to change it.