The Escape Artist

There was a small red pulsing light as the camcorder was turned on, the detective moving to sit across from me. I never liked the gleam in his eyes when he looked at me. This time it had a triumph in it, which I suppose he had a right to have. He finally caught me didn’t he? He cleared his throat, folding his hands in front of him, fingertip to fingertip. He smiled a smile unkind, and said, “Yang Seungho. Caught you at last.”

My face betrayed no emotion. I wasn’t feeling anything, really. Nothing someone sane on death row would feel: horror, terror, grief, or better yet, agony. Nothing. It was more like I was slightly annoyed with a pinch of get-out-of-my-face and a dash of boredom.

I flashed a small smile his way; a corner of my mouth tugged upward, almost a smirk but not quite, before going back to being expressionless. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say, anyway?

He expected me to say something, it seemed, because his body language changed in his seat. He straightened up before leaning back in his chair, his folded hands moving toward his lap. “Not going to say anything, huh?” he asked me, his tone teasing, prodding at me to speak.

The red light still pulsed as the camcorder, aiming at me, caught my every movement or expression. My chest moved slightly as I let out a soundless huff of amusement, a soundless chuckle, if you will. What would I have to say to you, you dirty son of a bitch? I thought. I’m being sentenced to die today because of you. That thought wasn’t entirely true, since it was my fault, as I was the one who spilled blood and escaped with the blood trails in my wake, but I wasn’t about to correct myself.

He leaned forward and pointed a finger at the camcorder. “Do you know why that camcorder’s there, recording your every move?” He paused for a moment. He should’ve known he didn’t need to pause. He should know me better than that to know I wouldn’t wonder aloud why. “It’s so you can tell your story. Glorify the filthy bastard that you are and tell of how you escaped our grasp again and again. Tell of how we’d catch you in the end, but that you still tried to escape, no matter how many locks, bolts, shackles, or whatever the hell else we’d pile on top of you to try to contain you.” He smiled that unkind smile again and added, “So you can have your last word before you die.”

I let in a take of breath and let it out in a sigh, the first real sound the camcorder catches from my lips. “Oh, you’re too kind to me, Jihoon. After all these years I find out you do have a heart. And heard on film for the world to hear. Isn’t that grand?” I smiled; mimicking the smile he had been giving me as of late. My tone was filled with sarcasm, which he heard as clear as Pavlov’s bells.

“I’m not in the mood for your jokes,” he replied, his voice strained. I could see his ears turn red. We wouldn’t want to get the Hulk angry, did we? Looks like the Hulk wants to stay calm too. “I’m giving you one chance to tell your story to your adoring public,” he said with as much sarcasm as I had given, waving his hand at the camcorder as if he were trying to sell it to me. “Wouldn’t you like that? To tell them how you did it?”

I saw a flicker in his eyes and thought I was seeing things. “Don’t tell me you’re just as curious as whoever will see this as to how I did it. Not the great big Jihoon. Crumbled down to mere dirt at the hopes of finding out how the great Yang Seungho managed to escape so many times. You are, aren’t you?”

This time he didn’t answer, caught off guard at my observation. I could see the flash of shock before he carefully put his expression back together like a puzzle piece.

“You are,” I concluded. “I can see it written all over your face like a deck of cards.” I smirked. “Well, I won’t tell you a thing until you admit that you’re curious too.” I was the one leaning forward now, my hands clasped together as I rested my chin on them, my frayed hair getting in my eyes.

I saw him chewing on his cheek. He looked like a hurt kid at a candy store being told that he couldn’t buy the candy, but just look at it. It gave me pleasure to know that I had withered him down to this, begging for the words of truth to come spilling from my lips.

He looked away from me, and then locked eyes with me again, my feral gaze against his tame one. “Fine,” he confessed. “I’m curious to know as well.” He looked unhappy, having to admit something like that. It made me gleeful to see him so unhappy.

“Good, good!” I said, smiling again, my face animated with life. “It’s always good to be curious about things, you know. It stimulates the brain.” I pointed at my head, tapping it lightly.

“Get on with the telling,” he nodded in the direction of the clock behind me, ticking away like a time bomb, and it was, in a way, for me. “You have two and a half hours before your world goes black, and the camcorder stops recording.”

I turned around to see the clock for myself. “Well, then. It’s four thirty already?” I exclaimed, to no one in particular, and especially not him. “I suppose I’ll go ahead and start, then. But where should I begin?” I mused, the smile of amusement playing on my lips again.

His face was utterly red with annoyance as he tried to contain it, the anger he felt toward me at stalling. “Wherever you want to start.” He replied, his tone tired. “The beginning, the middle…but not the end.”

“Okay, then. I know exactly where to start.”