Echoes Of Unspoken Words
Many people have sat in this chair. Some of them have died in it. Some die easy, some die hard. But everybody who sits in the chair talks. Some rush to it, as if they believe that will lessen the pain. Others hold out, gritting their teeth against the words they wish so powerfully to speak. Everybody talks, and everybody dies.
It is a job, like any other.
I wear a suit. It is comfortable and has plenty of pockets. I replace the pocket handkerchief every day. By the afternoon, I may remove the jacket and perhaps roll up the sleeves of my shirt. I wear a dark shirt, never white.
One time, a man spat at me and – in anger – I slit his throat; his last words bubbled out of his neck and dried unheard on his chest. I was new, I knew no better. That would not happen today. I have more pride than that.
So, please – sit. We shall talk here, you and I.