(Off the record part 1 of 2)
Hope and fear. I Hope that the inspector never finds out what
I have been doing inside his spotlessly clean comfort room. I fear what will happen to me if he does, when
he does.
I Fear and I hope. Fear that the interview will never be published.
Hope that I won't care if it doesn't.
Like a cheating lover, I made this C.R. my phone booth, risking the skull under my thick and
curly hair just so I could write. Because I must.
I write. I am married to
the word and everybody else, including Inspector Javier T. is my mistress, my
momentary muse, or my unwilling victim. Of course, my reader, you are an exception.
That is why (contrary to his
command) those two Kape Barako
breaks of the interview will never be off the record. For someone like me, nothing is.
And if I die (I fear) because I spoke. I will die
in fashion (I hope) because I spoke. Remember that Words live longer than the ones who spoke them.
This is what happened: