The Private Eye
I see how he works. He’s like an investigative reporter, or a private dick. Analyze, assess every detail. Remember he’s only searching for the truth. He takes every word, every action of who he’s interrogating and tries to poke holes in their story. He questions everything, implies a sinister motive. He hates to be tricked, tripped up, made the fool. He doesn’t deal much in laughter.
He knows me well. He knows my weak spots, doesn’t care about my strengths. He’s working with me, but against me at the same time. His tactics are underhanded. He’ll take things he’s not sure of, things that there aren’t a grain of truth to, and spin them like they’re real. So real that you’re willing to believe them, to act on them, to use them as weapons to…protect yourself.
Protect you from what? Well, from getting hurt. The hurt you felt as a child when you were lost, away from your mother for the two minutes that seemed like a lifetime. The pain that settled in your stomach when she, gnarled hands and perfume, floated off. The heartache you endured when the first beautiful spirit that gazed into your eyes said goodbye.
But those were things that were cleaved with great zest and merriment long ago amidst the echoes of children laughing and mothers smiling in wonder at the incredible lightness of being while ignoring the cruel portent of a storm, blustering and bruised, approaching from the north.
He’s a bastard. But he can be reasoned with, even as he whispers invectives in your ear. But you have to be ready. And you have to be calm. And you have to methodically cast off the walls he has built, the defenses you have surrendered to, and the tears you hold onto. It’s hard. I know. Let them go.