Untitled: Connor’s Garden

(Next chapter in story-thing)

 

TAKEN FROM AN INTERVIEW WITH CONNOR ROBERTS, BY ISAAC YOUNG

JAMES COUNTY JAIL, INDIANA

31 DECEMBER 2008

Connor Roberts. The name sounds somewhat harmless, really. Nothing to match the man to whom it belongs. Connor Roberts is the famed outlaw, the rallying cry of many a would-be revolutionary in today's world of office chair rebels.

Two years ago, Connor Roberts was taken in by paralegals underneath a bridge in California, outside of San Francisco. He had then been on the run for twelve years, a string of bloody killings dogging his footsteps.

Acquiring a pass to interview him was an ordeal, but my connections with the law have helped, I'm not going to lie. You're a reporter, you get to know people. People help you out.

The James County Jail is well-known in the country as the highest-security prison on this side of the world. Connor Roberts, naturally, was very well assumed to be placed there in lieu of another jail.

The imposing steel doors loom over me as I walk in. There are armed guards every few feet, watching every set of feet walking down the halls. It's clear that they have no intention of letting me do anything out of the ordinary.

I am allowed my notepad, but not my camera or any other recording equipment. My camera will not snap the gray walls of this place, nor will my microphone catch the soft tap of feet on concrete. This is a time only for me and my pencil.

After an extensive security search (the specifics of which I do not feel inclined to recount), I am led to a small room with a table. I am instructed to sit down.

The door on the opposite wall opens, and a small, disheveled looking young man enters, flanked by guards and entangled in chains and entrapments. This, this man cannot be the fearsome Connor Roberts, I think, this man is barely over twenty.

He sits down across from me, and the guards position themselves at the corners of the room. They do not relax their grips on their rifles, and the barrels are still inclined towards the man across from me. Connor Roberts. I take out my pencil and begin to talk with him.

Are you Connor Roberts?

Yes, I am.

(His tone is aloof, almost careless to his predicament. He seems utterly unfazed by his situation, almost bored.)

Connor, you were brought here two years, ago, correct?

That is correct.

Before that, you were on the run for twelve years?

That is also correct.

Forgive me for asking, but, wouldn't that make you a bit... older?

I am forty-seven now, and I am not ashamed to say it.

But... you seem so young.

I have my methods of appearing younger, just as many do.

I'm straying from the point here. Before you were taken in by authorities, what were you doing under that bridge, specifically?

I'd assume my lawyers wouldn't want me to say this, but I'm already under four or five life sentences. I lose count, and the point is, I'm scheduled to die in here.

That bridge... that bridge. I was there for a night, I recall. I was taking refuge there for a short time. It's very simple, really. It was the most convenient and simple place to go.

You were convicted of the murder of two young campers before then, and that was the latest charge attributed to you at that time. You pleaded innocent then, at the trial. If I were to ask you now if you had killed those campers, what would you say?

I'm not going to lie to you. Those campers were killed by me.

They were?

Yes. I killed them. The only reason I pleaded innocent then was on the advice of my lawyers. I'm not a stupid man, it was my best chance to get out of this mess.

This mess, you call it? What is 'this mess'?

The whole business with the trials, mainly. I don't give a damn about the trials. I have a question for you. Have you ever thought about what motivates a man to kill?

Yes, it was something we covered in many of my reports. Jealousy, confusion, often just simple anger.

No, see, the error you have in that reasoning is apparent. Men do not kill for jealousy. They may kill out of confusion, possibly, or anger, but they do not kill for anger. They use anger as their tool to deal the death blow, but they do not kill for anger.

Most men who kill feel remorse. They feel bad for what they did afterwards. They see the err of their ways. They try to conceal what they've done. They hide. They run. Whatever. They try and escape what they did.

But I'm different.

I do not escape what I did.

Are you familiar with the term 'Takers'?

Is that what they're still calling me? I must say, it's fitting.

It's fitting?

Well, yes. What would you call it? I take. I take things from people. I'm a thief of the worst kind, because what I take, you can't ever get back.

Could you explain?

Certainly. You see, I'm sure you know what virtuim is, yes? The thing that makes us unique, the life-blood of our species. We probably couldn't survive without it. It's a genetic wildcard, you never know what you're going to get, really. There's a certain amount of connection with psychology, or so some doctors say, but I've known many people who don't at all connect with their virtuim.

So, we have virtuim. It makes us different from other species, it makes us special. Some of us, arguably, more special than others. Some of us have effects that most of the general public would rather pretend was nonexistent. I have one of those effects. I have a rather unique ability to take... what is not mine.

Do you know why I wear these chains? Why there are always armed patrols around me? It's because I have enough power to kill everyone here. I have enough power to destroy all that you know as human civilization. I am the strongest human being to ever walk the earth.

All through the taking.

Over the years, I've ripped out that which makes people inherently human, and used it to make me less human. Paradoxical, maybe, but satisfying. Have you caught on yet?

No, I can't say I have.

Of course not. You can't even visualize it. It's so ingrained in what you do, how you live, you don't even think about it. Isaac, I've already got you. You're already in my garden.

I don't know what you mean.

You never will. What are you feeling right now?

A bit confused, honestly.

That'll pass, you'll subside in a bit to a life of droll mediocrity, and you'll blend right in with the rest.

Goodbye, Isaac.

 

(Licensed under the GNU GPL3.0, 2010, Dante Douglas)