“We would normally ignore an apparent transient like yourself.”
My fellow interlocutor has a dry whispering voice, as if she can desiccate the very words she speaks. Denying them the moisture of life.
“But, you see, sometimes a vagrant is more than just a collection of rags and mental health issues with an aversion to stability.”
Actually, as I think about it, she doesn’t just suck a word dry. She eviscerates it, leaving a husk, whose meaning is initially difficult to comprehend. Like looking at grapes, withered on a dying vine, and having to work your mind backwards to flesh them out, arriving at the picture of something which makes you salivate.
“Sometimes they are an interloper. A fifth column, an advance party. Sent to provoke and weaken. To meddle in things they have no right to touch.”
I can’t help it. Her speech patterns are engendering some form of osmotic entropy. The barrier between our areas of knowledge inclining to homogeneity. No, that’s not quite right. It is more the subsuming of my knowledge into hers, a hostile takeover.
“I am an exponent of torture as a way of getting at truth. There is a purity in the response to pain. When the sordid little secrets are laid bare there is a perfect release; a moment of exquisite immaculacy in the freedom it brings. You will appreciate it when it happens. When your vermillion sins are cleansed.”
Everything. I have already told her everything. Where I am from. Who I am. Who I was. Everything, Everything.
“Though I can’t fault you on your efforts of assistance so far. So many people met, so many secrets discovered in your short while in our country. So many things seen. It really did give me the most perfect idea. We haven’t thought to abacinate anyone for quite some time. My chief torturer was quite excited at the prospect. It’s why he measured you up so. Wants the mask to be a perfect fit for your eyes. Yes, then you can tell us again. Everything you saw.”
I cannot comprehend what more she needs to hear. How many betrayals are sufficient to expunge the sin of my capture? Maybe the mask they measured me for, is the means by which I am to be redeemed.
“You know, well you probably don’t, but for the criminals of this country, or for those taken in battle, such a treatment is forbidden. No one cares about a few bruises or the odd loose tooth. But the more, rigorous, methods are denied us.”
By the Maker and the Sons of the Prophet, what more does she need to do. Already I am reduced to a shell, my spirit broken.
“There is considerably more latitude with a grubby little spy like yourself. The veneer of civilization, the niceties which everyone pretends are important, can be discarded in favor of ascertaining the truth. You may think that you have already told us the truth. you will wonder what more you could possibly reveal. Believe me, you will reveal things that you had thought were the fevered dreams of a dissolute life.”
If she wants dreams, I can tell her my dreams. She can have my hopes, desires and wishes also.
“How cool does that mask feel? I can almost see it drawing the heat from your head. All that effort in making up stories you think I want to hear. Let’s get some heat into the metal, a pleasant cherry red glow. Then we’ll start again with the questions.”
This is a fragment from my Sar Chona stories. The interrogator appears in the main stories as the head of the cities secret police. Her victim here appears only as someone who was used as leverage against another character
words bt stuartcturnbull picture by garten-gg via Pixabay