The Moth on my Lips | Teen Ink

The Moth on my Lips

March 1, 2016
By KingCheetah GOLD, Miami, Florida
KingCheetah GOLD, Miami, Florida
12 articles 1 photo 4 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Mankind is governed by its imagination" -Napoleon Bonaparte

Mary was shown the door into a pale room. Different shades of red freckled her body. As far as she was concerned, she didn't know whose blood was on her. She didn't care. Mary stepped in and sat down in front of the interrogator. He was a young man, maybe early thirties. The man was also well shaven, and neatly dressed in a suit. His square jaw and strong cheekbones, matched with his stormy grey eyes, communicated a grave matter.
"Ms. Prudence," the interrogator said, opening a thin folder in front of him and examining the papers. Mary stared blankly at the dull, metal table in front of her. She seemed lost in her thoughts much less paying attention to the interrogator. "Ms. Prudence," the interrogator said again, being sure that he had her attention. Mary looked up at him and smiled faintly. "Could you describe to me what happened?" the interrogator asked, raising a dark eyebrow at her.
Mary didn't say anything. The interrogator waited for an answer. Finally, Mary shook her head. The man knitted his eyebrows in slight confusion.
"Nothing could describe what I saw. What happened," she said, her voice failing at the end of her sentence. The interrogator adjusted his weight on the seat, crossed his arms, and licked his chapped lips. He watched Mary, thinking deeply on how to go about questioning her. Then he sat forward and rearranged the papers in front of him. Mary stared at his hands, moving evenly, and efficiently. The interrogator slipped a photo between his fingers, then lifted his hand to show her the image.
"Do you recognize this man? He goes by the name of-"
"Rory Seams," Mary said, suddenly. The color seemed to be missing from her face. Perhaps it was the lighting or maybe the trauma. Perhaps it was both. "I do." The interrogator kept his hand there, softly trembling in a degree that was barely noticeable. The ice-like air in the room seemed to affect him. Then he placed the photo back into the folder. He laced his thin fingers together, and rested his arms on the chilled metal table.
"Could you tell me a little bit about him?" the interrogator asked, his tone probing and meticulous. Mary was lost in her thoughts again. "Ms. Prudence." Mary looked up again. "Are you ok?" the interrogator asked, concerned. Mary nodded her head. "Rory Seams. Could you tell me a little about him?" he asked again.
"Right," she said, softly. "He was... odd. I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for him." The interrogator read the papers he had under his name. Investigators have been able to give a brief synopsis of who he was, but the interrogator was more interested in what Mary had to say. He raised his eyebrow when he came upon a particular report.
"But," he said, looking up from the paper, "he tried to kill you."
"Yes... but he loved me."
"But you didn't love him?" the interrogator asked. As of now, he had all these puzzle pieces that he didn't know where to put. Mary kept her faint smile on her face.
"Sir, I believe our definitions of love differ," she said. The interrogator raised his eyebrow.
"How so?" the man questioned.
"Love is a death sentence," Mary said, grimly.
"I'm afraid I... don't understand," the interrogator said. Mary looked at the interrogator.
"Where is Rory now?" Mary asked. The interrogator looked down at his papers for a moment before looking back at Mary.
"Found dead. Shot himself," the interrogator said. Mary didn't look the least bit surprised.
"If you love someone, you are bound to them. To the point where it's worth more than your own sanity. Where it surpasses your own will to live, and becomes your will to live. You give your life to the person you love. If it means taking a bullet, taking a blow, or even killing someone, you will do it," Mary explained. "He knew he'd never see me again. He will never be able to serve his purpose in loving me. So he was better off dead." The interrogator kept an expressionless face. He didn't know what to make of this. The interrogator closed the folder again.
"So... Could you tell me what happened?" he asked. Mary stared at him.
"Do you really want to know?" she asked him.
"Well... it's my job to find out," the interrogator said. Mary adjusted her weight on the stale blue chair.
"Could I have a glass of water?" Mary asked. The interrogator paused.
"Oh. Of course, I'll tell them to bring one for you," he said. Mary nodded.
"Thank you," Mary said, drawing in a deep breath, "Let me start with why I was sent there."

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