|
This is the third meeting of the sort this week. We sit in a room and he asks me questions; questions about my life and my family, about the friends I keep and the choices I've made with my life to end up here. It always comes back to being my fault when I know well enough I'm only a victim of circumstance, brought into an ugly world by a couple of people who only wanted to do some good for it.
He asks me about my mother.
"What about her?" Indignent as always, the question calls for a few scribbles in his ledger, more than likely notes of defiance although the conversation had yet to really begin. It could only be a conversation with two people, right? Maybe even more, but never one; not unless you were crazy.
He asks where she is.
"I don't know and what makes you think I'd tell the likes of you?" Again, notes, the scratch closer to nails on a chalkboard than a simple soft scrawl on paper. This is just a test; something to see how much information they can squeeze out of me today. Sometimes they just bring in a psychologist, usually short with four eyes and an obnoxious habit of always staring down at his papers. Sometimes it was the good cop, bad cop routine with all the punches to go with it. Others, the ones he didn't care to recollect his feelings on, involved pushing his accelerated healing as far as it could go.
Luckily, this was just four eyes. He isn't too much of a people person, probably seeing them as rats over beings on his intellectual level. It makes him intelligent in all matters of life that call for a book and factual information, but conversations? There was no holding a good one.
"Can you tell me about your mum?" The question throws him off enough to snatch him pen away, a weapon in the right hands, be it a journalist or someone like me, someone who isn't in the mood to sit around any longer with a bunch of pigs honking and directing my every move. My pen becomes a sword and the weak spot, his eye, lunging for his keys before they react to the screams, and the table my shield once the soldiers standing in wait outside charged in.
My help better be here soon. Mom had taught me well enough to keep a solid plan, improvising only when needed. This whole thing? My capture? My failed attempts to escape? Just a ruse, something to keep the Nazi occupation busy while I learned all I could about them and their demonic friends. Funny -- I've got a few demonic friends of my own.
|