Ask

Ask me about the blood. Ask me how it got there. Ask me how long it took to accumulate so much of it all over the carpet, all over the house, the walls, the ceiling. Ask me where he is, why he’s not returned anyone’s call. Ask me to confess. Ask me to speak, very clearly, very slowly, with as much detail as possible, as to my whereabouts on the night before last. Ask me again. Ask me different questions in various ways. Ask me to shut up. Ask me to shut the fuck up and be silent. Ask me about the kind of relationship he and I had. Ask me about our political inclinations and our tendency to read the independent media. Ask me if he really did say “I would die for this cause” or to be more precise “I would die for you”. Ask me if he really said that or if, in fact, I have a habit of making things up. Ask me for my name, in full, and to inform you of my previous three residential addresses. Ask me for phone numbers, bank account details, contacts for doctors, copies of bills, correspondance with any government organisation. Ask me to show you the originals. Ask me why, on one occasion, I had to disguise my identity and sexual preference in order to gain employment. Ask me why they didn’t give me the job. And then, ask me again about the blood. Ask me who it belongs to. Ask me why I didn’t call the police earlier. Ask me about this video and dvd collection sitting on my shelves and why so much of it is so transgressive. Ask me about that painting on the wall, the one with the asexual looking guy with that sinister look on his face. Ask me what that’s all about. Ask me how long he and I had been seeing each other and if we were actually living together in the same house or was it more of a casual situation, for example, and did I have any other lovers. Ask me how much money I earn. Ask me about my aversion to small children and babies. Ask me why I have no time for families especially those with new-borns. Ask me what it is, exactly, I have against life, against reproduction, against nature, as you might call it. Ask me why I am so angry or at least appear to be, to you, the one who is asking me so many fucking questions. Ask me why I just don’t give up, give it all up and be done with it. Ask me: have I thought about suicide and then immediately after this ask me why I have thought about it so many times and then continue to interrogate me on why I have attempted it and the methods I chose, seemingly with a successive amount of failure. Ask me again about the blood. Ask me the obvious question. Ask me to identify the body and would I mind stepping into the small room for a moment while you make your enquires. Ask me if I am making it all up, pretending to have invented some story about a man who loved so much that he had to kill the very thing he wanted to possess. Ask me how that could happen. Ask me if that is what could happen. Ask me if something like love could drive you to the point of murder.

JASON