Poetry and Other Things of the Sort - The Interrogation

Suspect 1

I wonder what it feels like to die.

I wonder how that boy feels, in the picture. He looks awful.

I cling to death as if it were a fleeting memory—

That’s why I decided to become a detective (homicide dept!)

I’m constantly surrounded by desolation and despair.

I’ve never been on this side of an investigation, though.

I must admit, it’s quite invigorating.

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Suspect 2

I’m scared to death.

I’ve never broken a law in my life,

How did I even end up here?

Every question he asks me is worse than the last,

Every picture increasingly morbid.

I mean, that’s a child! They think I did that?

I could never do that... I wouldn’t.

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Suspect 3

Why should I care that he’s dead?

Things like that never really bothered me.

The suits seem to think they should.

But this isn’t my first time in an interrogation room.

I know what they are.

Some of these detectives really need to get their heads screwed on straight.

I laugh at the irony.

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Detective

Another boy’s dead. Murdered. Raped.

Death is slowly creeping around every corner of my decrepit mind...

I’ve been through this a million times—shaky breaths, hurried fingers through my hair.

Really, I’m completely fine, whether they like it or not.

I slide the pictures across. I watch them squirm.

Again, and again, and again, and again, and—

Breathless desperation, crammed in the action of a ceaseless pace.

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Victim

I’m dead, I think.

Quite ironic, really.

I used to fantasize about death a lot—my own and other’s.

Maybe that’s why it happened. Karma?

Sometimes I get angry.

With the killer. With myself. With everything. Everyone.

Maybe, I deserved it.

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Death

I am death.

I have a personal relationship with everyone on this planet.

Often, I end up in this bleak, pallid room.

I know why. Mankind is a ravaging monster.

It fascinates me, how one could live in a lie for so long.

Sometimes they force my hand. Make me steal a life before I want...

I am not a creature of spite.

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