Interview with Me

"What becomes of one once they are dead?", I spoke, repeating the question the interviewer, James, had asked, "Nothing I hope. If I want to leave this earth it is because I rather not think anymore, see anymore, hear anymore. I rather not feel anymore, not that I feel much these days anyway". My words echoed around the nearly empty room, shooting back at me. Their bitter taste stung my tongue like acid, as I waited silently for the next question to be asked. 

John looked up at me after writing a few things down. Not wanting to make eye contact I looked around the room. For the first time in 25 minutes, I truly noticed it. It looked to me like a room in a mental hospital. White brick walls, white tile floors. The only thing that resembled a normal room was that there was not a crazy person strapped to a metal bed, screaming. Instead the room held a steel cabinet, a steel table, and four steel chairs. I occupied one, and across from me James occupied another. There was really no distinct smell or feel to the room. Except it was cold, freezing cold. Even covered in black sweat pants, converse, and a over-sized knit sweater I was still shivering. The steel bars of the chair sent chills down my long spine whenever I leaned back. It must of been only 60 degrees in there, or maybe they didn't have a heating system. 

Finally he looked back down and began to speak again, "Miss. Gale, what star-"

"Please call me Allison. Miss. Gale is my mother, and I am defiantly not anything like her", I interrupted him mid sentence. Again my words echoed around the room, hitting the walls and coming back. This time with such power I could taste their venom and smell how rotten they were. No one ever called me Miss. Gale, and everyone knew it, because everyone knew what happened. Everyone knew how much I'd despised my mother.  

John taken back from my tone, looked up at me again, his eyes leaving his black spiral notebook. He caught a glimpse at my dark blue eyes, that were partially covered by my faded pink and purple bangs. After staring at them for a moment or two he quickly returned his gaze to his notebook. His expression now giving off signals of remorse and darkness. Rather than the excitement that took its place a few seconds ago. It was a suttle change but it told me everything. It told me he knew now, he knew how hurt I was. Just like the cliche saying, "The eyes are the doorway to the heart".  

Relief filled me. I had been waiting for someone to understand me ever since I met Danny, the love of my like. I mean yeah, there was someone who understood, but two people? Now that was amazing. The feeling of someone finally understanding was amazing. It was like the first time the sun had shown in years. It was like everything was going to be okay now, even though nothing was ever going to be completely okay. 

I studied James for awhile, waiting for a new question. The winter had seemed to of taken a toll on his tan. I looked him up and down again. Actually he was quite normal looking. Short brown hair, brown eyes, he had a large nose and medium sized lips, with some pimples near his hair line. He wore a blue shirt, whit some denim jeans. A little weight was gathered on his stomach. With his short legs, and long torso he would stand about 5'11". The lack of wrinkles and stretches on his skin tole me he was about in his early 20s. He was very normal. 

How boring, I thought to myself. My eyes tilted down again to watch as he read over his notes again, putting off his next question as long as possible. I strained my eyes to see what he was writing, but from where I was sitting, it looked like a completely different language. Maybe it was. Maybe interviewers did that so the interviewee could not understand what they were writing. 

I thought about the next question, and what it could be. Even though I already knew. I sat there quieting thinking to myself at what my response would be, and what would be his reaction. Good, bad, I had no idea. In the middle of one of my mini scenarios, it came. It started with his heart rate obviously picking up. Nervous for an answer, I assumed. Next a slight change in posture, making his back straighten. Then there was a deep throat clear, that boomed in my ear drums like a passing motorcycle. 

The anticipation kept growing. I wanted him to ask. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell my story.

Then finally he spoke up, "How did you end up like this?" He asked quickly and quietly, If I hadn't of predicted what he would ask, I probably wouldn't of known what he mumbled. 

His chin slowly rose till our eyes met. We stared one another down for a minute. That's when I knew he was ready for the emotional play I was about to give him front row seats to.