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.
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.
"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."
"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."
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