Sometimes, I never give my real name at all. Even to a friend of mine. Not that I hate my name. In fact, I love my name so much and I think my name without my body or my life wouldn't mean anything.

But who am I? What am I doing in this life?

Those questions was really matter for me until the day it becomes nothing. One day, I woke up and I realise, I've been thinking to much of what people said to me. I keep saying, that "I wouldn't care of any words that come out from stranger" or "I'll take any ctirsism as self-improvement". But I lied. I lied hardly and deeply to myslef.

I heard everything, from behind or front, and far or close. All those words are ment to me. From the people that I know to the most strangerst person that not even know one of my name. And of course, the most painful one is from the person that really close to you.

I couldn't ignore anymore. Those words grow into a pain that rooted inside me. Turn into the sharpest blade inside in me.

So, the next time people ask me to describe myself, I would just give them a smile and tell them the story they would like to hear. Beacause it won't matter anymore if I'm an angle or a devil, I couldn't change the story that they already believed in their mind.

credit: Photo by cottonbro studio from Pexels

I've never been interviewed. The word itself sounds like two steps from death... the wake; right before the final burial. I suppose the Who-Are-You is as good a stump of a question for a difficult answer to rise forth. As we speak, To-Whom-It-May-Concern, I am the pigeonhole through which the pellet is currently passing.

What's in it? I really don't know. That is left to the audience.

I am busy... making the omelet.

12.28.2023

Quien tu Eres? challenge @AJAY9979

My hardest interview question is "Tell me what happened." Someone always wants to know the story of the night I became a murderer. The why and how. Sometimes I think pure morbid curiosity allows me to sit in the chair across from them. I don't get called back. "It's not up to me." They say.

I don't mind the question. I've told the story too many times. I've lived through the night over and over again for more than twenty years. I don't like the question, because the story becomes a game of justification. I don't lie about it, but I have to explain the why so they understand. I have to give an excuse where "sorry" doesn't cut it.

I always lose eye contact. I find a spot and explain it to the spot. The interviewer always sympathizes with me. Tells me they don't blame me. Tells me about their own abusive relationship. Tells me they would have done the same thing. How they almost have done the same thing. How close they were to being me.

Then they never call. These almost murderers working a job I'd prefer to be doing. These people who now have my story inside of them. I wonder if it festers inside of them the way it festers inside of me. My toughest interview question will always be the one that keeps me from becoming more than my resume.

"Is there any other question I should ask you?" the interviewer asked.

The reason why this was such a difficult question is because of the tattoos of Mother Teresa on one cheek of my face and one of Pol Pot on the other. It was never mentioned, so looming as the 600-lb question that needed to be asked — but wasn't — I just answered, "No. I think we covered it all."

"Why should I let you live?"

It's a tough question to answer under the glare of his stainless forty-five. It's a giant cyclops in his hand, and I'm just a sailor stranded on an island a long way from home. Granted, I'm no tragic hero, but tragedy and me, we ain't exactly strangers.

The hero part? Not so much.

As far as interviews go, this one isn't even the worst I've had. Well, okay, it's more of an interrogation, really, but we're splittin' hairs with that distinction.

Kinda like how he's gonna split my hairs right along my scalp with them big damn bullets any minute now.

I decide to redirect. Stall. Truth is, I don't have a good answer for him. I'm guessing it's rhetorical, really. Maybe he is trying to make me suffer. Joke's on him. This is just another Tuesday.

"Kid, I hate to interrupt you're big badguy routine, but you ain't the first to point a gun at me."

"Yeah? What if I'm the last?"

He's nervous. Maybe even scared. I think this might be the first time he's looked a man in the eye and flirted with pulling the trigger.

It gets easier, but sleep sometimes gets worse.

I sigh.

The kid isn't really a kid. He's in his early twenties, grew up rough. I tracked him down to this empty house in a part of town nobody with good sense visits, especially at night. For me, he wasn't difficult to find.

He smells like the perfume of the girl he left in the Holiday Inn dumpster.

"Looks like your mind is made up. Nothin' I can do about it, you got the drop on me."

"Yeah, old man, don't you fuckin forget it."

I sigh again, shrug my shoulders. I decide to play this out, see where it goes.

"Mind if I have a last smoke?"

He looks at me like I'm the one with an eye in the middle of my forehead.

He stammers. "... are you fuckin' serious?"

"Am I laughin, kid?"

He's rattled. However this shit played out in his mind, this is not the way he thought it would go.

"No tricks."

"Wouldn't dream of it." I open up my cheap suitcoat, keeping my hands well clear of the holstered Glock at my side. I reach over to my chest pocket, grab the Winstons and my Zippo. I never break eye contact as I light up. I shake out another, offer it to him.

"You think I'm stupid?" He says, and I can hear the tremble in his voice. I can smell the fear.

It's fucking delicious.

I put the smokes back in my pocket, and I take a long drag. I make it about halfway through the cig before he breaks what I think is a pretty comfortable silence.

"Fuck this."

He pulls the trigger, and I feel the slug smack my forehead. I rock back on my heels, and the last thing I see before it's lights out is the paint-peeled ceiling of this stupid abandoned house.

I come to a little later, and my head fucking hurts.

The kid is going through my pockets, and he doesn't notice that the dead guy isn't quite as dead as he should be.

I smile and grab the kid by the throat.

He's too shocked to do anything but stare. He doesn't even reach for the gun he tucked into his waistband. He can't believe what he's seeing, I mean, Jesus, my brains are all over the floor.

It's ok, I grew new ones.

Traumatic healing is a little slower than it used to be. I'm a hell of a lot older than I used to be, too, so I guess that's fair. I'm guessing I was unconscious for a full minute this time. Used to, I'd be back on my feet in ten seconds, tops.

Lucky for me that only this kid's gun was silver, not his bullets.

I tighten my grip, and his eyes bulge.

"I think I know the answer," I say, slowly standing, never releasing my grip. He's trying to pull my hand off his neck, but he's learning that I'm stronger than I look.

He's confused. Part of it is not knowing what question I'm talking about, part of it is how the fuck can an old cop who just had his head hollowed by a .45 round through his head be talking to him.

I get it.

"You asked why you should let me live. I know the answer."

I let my eyes go gold. I let my teeth grow long, pointed. My mouth becomes just a little bit of a snout, but not too much. I still want the last word with this fucker.

"You shouldn't."

I squeeze until something crunches and pops, but before he dies, I make sure he sees my true face.

Cuando tengo dieciséis años, no me gusta escuela pero me gusta aprendide espanol mucho. Lo siento para el escribo palabras hoy. Todos modos, en el futuro para mi (Lydie bonito gringa sin simpaticas), aprende mas espanol in las cocinas de resturantes para mi trabajordores. Ellos pasado digo Lydie es una mentirosa. No bueno. Mierda. Yo soy mujer linda. Dios es mi sange, es verdad. Okay okay...De donde estoy? Muchos barachos veijos y hombres guapos jovenes tambien...todos los ellos y Lydie = amores para mi vida. Gracias para sus dineros porque soy probecita. Pero, yo no estoy aqui. Este comprende nunca para los todos en el mundo. No comprendo nada ahorita. De donde estoy? Que es mi estrella? Mi sol o mi luna? Quien tu eres? No se. Estas bein, si o no? Gracias a Dios para mi pero malo porque mi cerebro necesita un cuchillo ayer. Mi perito moreno tiene mi corazon pero ella es una tramposa. Soy tramposa tambien? Lo siento. Espanol es my linguina numero dos. Cuando es cena?