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Mr. Interrogator

I can’t remember his name, but someone once told me to ask questions to anybody in the world about anything in the world at any time in the world, and I took his advice. I soon became known as Mr. Interrogator, a nickname I made sure to live up to. The room was never quiet when I was in it (but then again, I was always in it). That’s one thing I was proud of. Bleak grey walls became rainbows and dirt became grass (not really, but it’s something nice to imagine). (I've been doing a lot of imagining lately).

The same person who told me to ask questions later decided to give up. A man in blue told me they found his body hanging from a rope in the bathroom. I asked who “they” were (Mr. Interrogator has to do his job). I got a sad smile as an answer. (I've often found it difficult to comprehend these looks). I stopped asking questions. (Can one truly stop asking questions?).

That same year, too many other people “gave up” to be able to keep track of them all. They were engraved anonymously onto the map of my mind, the tomb of the unknown soldier. (I do not expect a big funeral). I laid so many flowers in front of their graves that they began to cloud up my vision. (I have trouble remembering what daffodils look like when they're dead). I put myself in charge of their memories and souls and subconsciously realized this was the the only job I’d ever get.

I made my home in the corner of the room and put up imaginary walls around me. “I can’t see you. I can’t see you!” I screamed to my surroundings. (I'm not sure if I still have surroundings). I put my mind on the shelf and resolved to never leave this space. But, like always, I blacked out, then woke up sprawled across the middle of the room, the wall knocked down at my feet. (My father says I've always had ugly feet). For once in my life, I decided it wasn’t worthwhile to rebuild it again. (These resources do not grow on trees, I was told). I found an empty bottle on the ground and let it rock me back to sleep.

I woke up to find myself holding a rope that was slithering like a snake. In my mind it had black, green, and yellow stripes and red eyes that shredded me to bits when I looked into them. (I wonder if that's how it feels when one dies). But I was its charmer, and I knew it wouldn’t bite me until I gave it the signal. I was in control. I was in control. I was in control, and no one could dispute that. I looked it over silently and decided it was too fancy for my taste. (Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned). Nevertheless, I squeezed it once (the signal!) and tried to muster up the courage to ask it “Why?”



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