April 23, 2013
We're going to declare a victory and retreat.
Look at all those chairs out there. 15,000 they said? They're turning this into an event. I'm not sure I like that. Something's not right here. Something's off. No backpacks allowed on the street between 11 and 2—that's probably a good thing. I sure as hell hope there's no explosions out there. If there were I'd probably die. They could waltz over and take us all hostage. I'll probably be sleeping or hiding under my bed. Christ, it looks like they got a stage out there. Maybe I'll open my window and listen.
What I don't like is the recrudescence of these words. WMD, terrorist. I kind of want to go out and climb on that stage. But I bet they've got security guards around there now.
So things repeat themselves. They charged him in his hospital room, where he'd barely regained consciousness. He answered most questions with nods as he couldn't talk, not from that wound in his neck. I wonder if he'll have a scar on his neck. I wonder if he'll want to cover it up or hide it later. Maybe with a scarf.
They informed him of his right not to incriminate himself. He's a ghost on a security camera. He was the only one who didn't turn his head or scream. He just hung up his cellphone and walked away. He's charged with using a weapon of mass destruction and he could die.
Well, I guess he deserves to die. I guess. I guess. Again, I thought I'd be the first who'd want to rip his head off. But I want to know—why? But I think I know the answer. He, they wanted to see if they were the men to whom everything was allowed. They didn't have an afterplan. They didn't want to get away. Maybe people would have joined them. That can't be allowed to happen. He has to die, he has to die.
But Christ, how would I feel in a country that has to kill a 19-year-old? That cop was young too. They spent all day hunting him and millions of dollars, they say. They finally found him like a corpse in somebody's boat. He must look pathetic by now.
How do you think they're going to kill him? Lethal injection. Don't be morbid. Don't you get to choose how you die? Poison's so ugly, I'd rather have a firing squad. But I bet he's had enough of getting shot by now. There's an empty fan sounding out there, bright spotlights above all those chairs. An empty stage. There'll be thousands of cops out there tomorrow, with all their guns maybe.
But what about the children who'll never grow up? I have no right. To feel anything.