Anguished Culpability

What if you could step into the shoes of one of your most beloved icons at one of those crucial moments in their lives that end up defining them forever? Adam Ashraf braves these murky waters, venturing into the mind of the eternally fascinating Truman Capote on the eve of one such moment... 

My publisher just hand-delivered a copy of my new novel that will hit the racks next week- In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. Me – cold-blooded killer. Merely looking at the instrument I used for the murder – the murder of a man far better than I – makes me nauseous. I can’t bring myself to touch it, much less read it. I steal a look at the back cover and read, “On November 15, 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were savagely murdered by blasts from a shotgun held a few inches from their faces. There was no apparent motive for the crime, and there were almost no clues. As Truman Capote reconstructs the murder and the investigation that led to the capture, trial, and execution of the killers, he generates both mesmerizing suspense and astonishing empathy. In Cold Blood is a work that transcends its moment, yielding poignant insights into the nature of American violence.”

Truman Capote. My name always comes with a little bio. In early days, I was called “Local Reporter”. Later, it was “Freelance Writer for The New Yorker”. “Best-selling Author of Breakfast at Tiffany’s” followed. Today, I get a new sobriquet. It is the most significant of them all.

I wrote a book that was of a new genre; a new style of writing. It is bound to become a classic and is probably going to be compared to the work of Hemingway. I am probably going to be put in the league of Dickens, Twain and Fitzgerald. I’m not just about to become the Manhattan literary toast of the sixties, I am about to become an icon. As the dreariest of thoughts pops into my head, I pour myself a glass of champagne and toast, “To the man who betrayed his friend!”

“Was it all worth it?” I wonder. In forty years, what will the world remember? The man who betrayed his friend or the man who wrote the best non-fiction novel of his generation? Am I going to be compared to Hitler or Lincoln? After draining my glass down in a single gulp, attempting to vanquish the guilt that refuses to let me go, I pour another drink. “To the man who will inspire writers in generations to come”, I say as I wait for my emotions to numb.
(continued below)

Guilt Of Ignorance: Icon by Michaela Rinaldi

“Of course it was worth it!” the rational side of me attempts to calm it down- the guilt.

“They were murderers, Truman.” I remember, my best friend, Nelle Harper Lee’s words from right after the execution. They are words that never fail to calm me down. “They were murderers, Truman”, I repeat to myself. Those words are my calming lullaby. They soothe me and shelter me from my own self-contempt. They help me sleep at night. I slump into slumber praying that they will sink in once and for all even though I know they never will. They are laws. They are not the spirit of the laws. They are what bound the laws, but they had nothing to do with justice. They are not what bound me. I know better. Perry Smith was indeed a murderer, but he was no beast. Perry Smith was indeed a murderer, but he was no monster. Smith was my friend. If Smith was a monster, then who is not?! If Smith was a monster, then what am I?! And now he is gone. The pen is mightier than the sword. I would know - I used it to kill.

That champagne isn’t serving its purpose. I need something stronger. I gulp a gin martini and toast out-loud with the theatrical tendencies I shall forever be notorious for, “TO THE MAN WHO KILLED HIS FRIEND”. I scream hoping it will numb my senses because the alcohol is doing such a bad job.

My demons will haunt me for life. I know that. I know that my editor, Shawn, is a stranger to the truth. He will lie to save himself the guilt. “You didn’t kill them,” he would tell me with the most plastic of smiles on his face. “You simply did not help.” Nothing is further from the truth. The whole jury probably read In Cold Blood’s excerpts before the final verdict was made and the sentence was uttered. I practically tied the noose around Smith’s neck with my bare, filthy hands, to land myself a bestseller. No, no, no – I did it to make myself an icon. I need more gin. Straight, this time.

“To the biggest writer of the twentieth century! TO THE BIGGEST FRAUD OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY!” I toast in my sharp voice as I turn around flamboyantly.

What is happening to me? Why am I thinking like that? This is the book that millions around the world are waiting for! Millions around the world are chanting my name! I can’t pull the plug now. It’s too late. I’ll open a charity in Smith’s name. It’ll be redemption for his sins. “And yours too,” my demons remind me with a condescending look on their faces. I don’t know what they’re talking about – I haven’t done anything wrong. Everything will be okay. In one week, I’ll be the biggest household name in New York. I’ll be the biggest household name in America! I’ll attend all the fabulous galas and parties. Life will be good. It will be good. I’m sure it will be.

“It ought to be, right?” I mutter over another glass of gin.

-Adam Ashraf

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