You might think sitting alone in a police interrogation room - when they "ice" you - you'd first be rehearsing what story you're going to tell. But that's actually the farthest thing from your mind - and the most irrelevant.
Instead, your true crimes come flooding in. Crimes unfaced, lurking in the garden of your mind like weeds needing to be plucked - but never are. It's then you feel the guilt no officer of man's law can comprehend.
You flash back to stupid conversations misspoken and misbegotten, arguing around your fear-and-trembling truths. That look of hurt on her face, locked away in the deepest crevices of your heart, vaulted for eternity. Then, she's gone, both the excitement and the terror. That's when you fall into the void.
From the void originates every crime.
Your head compresses in the ensuing vacuum. Sometimes, in the swelling panic, you can almost convince yourself she's still there. Your heart comes alive, beating in hope like in before-times.
In stilled breath, a world made perfect, as voted on by the masses, making you whole in your hole.
Enter the criminal. He saves the world in delicious malicious intent, a misguided battle of life and death, fearing himself most.
Do the cops know what shame I've done since she's been gone?
That's the fear that grips you. Oh, I'll tell them what I did alright enough (they know already) - just not the why.
I amuse myself thinking up reasons they might buy. Will probably need to see the actual asshole who questions me before I know which excuse will work. Of course, if they really wanted to know they wouldn't ask.
I'd like to throw out "replacement theory" but don't think I can say it with a straight face like those shooters do. But if I can pull it off, I may get a mention on the national news as part of an alarming trend. That'd be cool!
Since I lost her (and my self-respect) I've struggled mightily to keep crap jobs and my finances have suffered as a consequence. So I could float out there "economic pressure" because that sure as hell has beaten me like a flea-bitten dog.
Or maybe I go with the Johnny Cash lyric and say, "I did it just to watch him die." Damn, that would be funny!
Shit, it's then I realize I've been smirking as I rotate various excuses in my head. God only knows what they're thinking behind the mirror.
So two guys come filing in. I can tell they've done this before. One stands off in the corner acting predisposed. The other sits in the chair opposite me and smiles. I feel like I'm in a fucking movie.
He's speaking but I don't hear his synthetic words. I hear only the song dream I played over and over in my dark harrowing room the day she left my life.
Unexpectedly, a sense of reality rushes in. I explain a pain in my soul was killing me in unbearable agony, like I'd been stabbed in the belly.
"So you belly stabbed a man for that? To 'express your soul's need for help'?"
"Sure looks that way."
I get "the gaze", him trying to see if I'm bullshitting. But I'm so twisted at this point it always sounds like I'm bullshitting when I tell the truth.
"You picked him completely at random then?"
"Sure looks that way."
Yeah, he didn't like that answer, either. By now I've disconnected, watching the entire scene in the third person. Cut to camera three in the ceiling corner.
"That's messed up. You stab a man on the street, completely at random, no reason whatsoever." Him not liking what he's hearing.
I lean back in my hard metal chair in self-satisfaction. "Oh," I explain, half-smiling, "there's always a reason why."
Time for the big showdown
I let that hang in the air like a bad smell, knowing he's going to crack.
"OK. Would you care to enlighten us, Mr. Simmons?"
Like I'm going to tell this asshole prick about my girlfriend problems. Then it struck me.
"OK, sure. But you first."
Now it was his turn to lean back, suspicious as all get out.
"Just exactly what in the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Yeah, man, I know exactly why I stabbed that guy: pure loserdom. Which means I know exactly why everyone does it.
"Simple. Just tell me why you cops keep killing unarmed black men."
So Paul claims his mother came to him in a dream "speaking words of wisdom." As I sit in my dank, dark hole I'm thinking I need me some words of wisdom. A dream in the night, a whispered prayer in my ear, or better yet, etched tablets from God. I'll take just about anything at this point in time.
Things are bad - maybe more bad than I can say - and are only going to get worse far as I can tell.
I would like to do something constructive with me life; beautiful and noble if yet on a dying planet. Be the light, so to speak. I am an empty urn yearning and aching to be filled.
Yes, many are those seeking guidance. But a shared pain does not lessen the agony. Help!
But God ain't talkin'. We're on our own. You can ask, but you will not receive.
"It's all bullshit. We're just here to die, end of story. Money is bigger than God. You say for me to ask?? OK, I'm asking!"
In the ensuing silence my thoughts turn towards Emily, and I think: traveling twice the speed of sound it's easy to get burned.
My interest is in nothing, null and void. How can I be interested in a life without her?
I start the march to my dreary bed, unspeakable cross of doom awaiting me in the morn. The monsters may not win every battle, but they've won every war.
What exit freedom?
So I gave up, all doors closing; and closed my eyes under the weight of my blanket of despair.
Then an angel appeared, asking I be not afraid.
"Oh, hell. I'm not some fucking shepherd. You know this insanity is almost over, don't you."
The angel said there was a message for me and did I want to see it?
Well, that was a strange question, I thought. I prayed for the damn message. Of course I want to see it!
Don't I?
Surely this is isn't one of those "Be careful what you wish for" moments. I mean, I'm at my wit's end, nowhere to go. What hope could I possibly have outside of this message? Of course, the only reason I'm getting it is just so God can prove me wrong (again) for saying I'd get no response.
So I said "Yes", with instant karmic regret.
In a vision that can never be erased, the angel unfolds the message with its flaming red letters: "WHERE'S THE GODDAM RENT?"
