Interrogation

I was taken to a small room behind the security, with grey concrete walls and two metal chairs in the middle. They were facing each other and even when nobody was sitting on the chairs, the whole thing just looked like a contemporary art project titled ‘threat’. It looked like a scene from a film noir except there was only one shade of grey and I don’t think I looked like an attractive damsel in distress. I was in distress but it had only made me sweat more. I tried not to ever raise my arms because I was afraid my white shirt had turned yellow under my armpits. The room was much smaller than you’d expect, and I thought maybe they had done that on purpose. Your interrogator would be only inches apart from you. I still remember his eye color and the intimidating smell of cologne drenched in smoke. Airports do have very particular smells. Like they have been cleaned so many times yet with horrible products that they somehow still stink. He smelled different, more intimidating. He smelled a little like power. And because he was so close to me, his breath would hit my face every time he spoke up. A wave of wind, of bad coffee and even worse tobacco. 

 

 My ID wasn’t enough so a series of questions followed. I had to be interrogated to prove my identity. The last time I had answered so many questions about myself was in therapy which I eventually stopped going to because I felt like it took more money from me then it gave…anything. But the second time around I felt worse at answering the simplest questions. I couldn’t recall memories, I couldn’t recall emotions. I just stared at the interrogator’s face. He had an abnormally large mole and I was thinking if he’d ever get it removed. Meanwhile questions about my childhood went through one ear and out the other. He asked about my hometown, and why I had moved, if I was still in contact with both my parents, what I studied and where I worked at the moment. I knew where I worked and what I did perfectly well so I tried to tell him I’d get fired if he kept me there for longer. But because I couldn’t tell my first pet’s name right away, he didn’t let me go. I also didn’t know my kindergarten, I didn’t know any of the questions he asked me about my sister or father. I got my mother’s birthday but he said it didn’t prove I was a part of the Young family. My responses had come out detached and a little forceful. Considering I was being questioned, I though that would be normal. Then I realized they must be questioning the girl on the plane as well. Surely in such situation I couldn’t be the only suspect. And surely, the forger would be worse at the questions.

 

-  Are you asking the same questions to the fake Alice Young? And don’t I get to call my lawyer and stuff, I’m quiet        at a loss right now, Mr…

-  Alice Young’s plane is already in flight.

-  And she’ s on the plane.

-  She is, it’s been 20 minutes.

-  So now you just let suspects fly wherever, she could take away my whole career.

-  But you are the only criminal in the airport Miss…

-  Miss Young. And what is it that I’m guilty of? Are you blaming me for identity theft?

 

 He looked at me as if I was missing the whole point. As if there was a meaning behind all of this and I was the only outsider who still couldn’t comprehend it. He had the looks of a stern teacher and a disappointed mother. It was hard to tell if he pitied me or just loathed my existence. 

 

-  Loss.

 

 The word loss is of Germanic origin. In old English it meant ruin or destruction. In a way it blames the subject for the disruption of a prevailing nature. Annihilation of something valuable. Of beauty and serenity. It is a bad change that you are responsible for. Now it also means the “failure to hold, keep, or preserve what was once in one’s possession”. It holds the subject guilty, still.

 

-  Loss?

-  Loss of identity.