The Interviewer

“I’m glad you could join me.”

You aren’t impressed by my poise, my calm, my anything. I don’t know why I thought you might be. It doesn’t even amuse you, you probably want to go back to your cell and do nothing. Nothing has ever phased you. “I don’t do interviews.”

I hold out my empty hands. “I’m not taking any notes. No recordings. Just here to ask you questions.”

I should have known better, but you don’t ask me anything. Or comment. Nothing to record your answers accurately, expect to tell the world anyway, any of those things that others have told me. As if I make a living off of this.

“I won’t ask you how you did it. I am here to ask you why.”

You stare at me, as you have been, no physical reaction yet again. “You don’t want to know how?”

“Why would I? To repeat it? If how you did it got out, someone might want to do it too. With how it all went down, a preemptive defense wouldn’t really be possible. I hope you tell no one. I hope the how follows you to your grave.”

Still no change on your face. I can’t tell what you are going to say next. That you asked me the previous question at all should tell me something, but your voice is toneless. I can’t read you. Not that I’ve ever been good at reading any of the people I have interviewed. Only in persevering.

“The same could be said of the why,” you say.

I have probably failed this attempt. It might take a long time before I can get another chance. But I will. And you know it. You know I will try, believe I will not succeed.

This is up for debate. We will see.

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