Happiness & Homicide: The Other Side Part Two

“Why did you rape some and not all of them, Wil?” Phillip asks, taking his usual seat across from me. “And a good morning to you too, Philly.” I offer him a wide smile. “How can you just do that?” “Do what? Rape?” “No, I mean yes, but I’m referring to smiling at me. You know why I’m here, what I’m going to ask you and you still smile? Are you reliving a fantasy? Getting some sort of pleasure out of all this?” I laugh. “No, I’m smiling because it’s polite. It’s a proper way to greet someone. Or have things changed since my incarceration?” “You’re right, a smile is a way to greet someone.” I offer him the smile again. “Now where’s yours? Let’s see that smile of yours.” My voice is velvet and playful. “Come on now, just a little one.” Philip turns up the corners of his mouth, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes; I can still see the unease deep in the green of his irises. I decide to pounce. “Does it bother you that I’m unchained? That we’re conducting these interviews on my turf? We can use a conference or visitation room if that makes you more comfortable.” He sits down. “I’m not afraid of you, Wil.” “Its just difficult for you to swallow some of my actions? You have doubts about my forthcomings with some of the details. All perfectly natural. I’m not offended nor would I be if you voiced these feelings. Cigarette?” I extend my pack out to him. “No, thank you. I don’t smoke. And why do you? In this day and age, I wonder why anyone would smoke.” He sets up his notebook and digs around in his bag for his pen and small tape recorder. “Well…” I pull the chair out, turn it around and sit to face him. “It's an oral fixation.” He and his pen nearly explode with excitement. “Really?!” “No. I was fucking with you there. I smoke because it’s something to do. I don’t really care for the taste, but I do love the smell of a fresh cigarette. Why haven’t they made a candle of that scent? You’d think they would. They basically have a candle for every goddamn scent and occasion. Fuckin’ nauseating. Turning everything into profit.” 

Phillip looks up from his notes. “Are you trying to tell me that none of your crimes were financially motivated? Not even the two counts of theft we have you on?” “Just because you charged me with theft doesn’t mean greed or financial gain were the motivators.” “Then what were your motivations?” “Do I need motivations?” “I…I don’t know. I think you would.” 

“I know why you don’t like me calling you Philly.” “I never said I didn’t like it.” “Vocally no, physically yes. Each time that I refer to you by that instead of Philip, your muscles stiffen, you straighten up a bit more, drawing yourself up to full height. Philly is the name of a boy, a child and you are a man. You don’t want me, like someone else in your life, someone important to you, to see you as a child. You want my respect. Your posturing is a way to show me that you’re an adult and on some level try to intimidate me because you’re taller than me and somewhat larger.” He stares into me. “I…I didn’t notice that I did that.” “You do. And I know its nothing to do with your mother calling you that, but your father. He dominated you and he still does. Maybe not in your career or education like most fathers, but in your personal relationships. He may not voice that he’s displeased with your choices of friends, sexual partners or even casual acquaintances, but the little looks he gives, the small noises he makes, it tells you just what he thinks about every single one of those people. And as much as he will find me distasteful like most people do, he will respect me. He’ll respect me not because of what I’ve done, but because of my dominance. The way I took charge of things and still do. He doesn’t hate women nor will be looked favourably upon what I’ve done to the women, but he will see me as powerful, something that his son lacks. You’re afraid to show your dominance, afraid to take charge. I’m almost surprised that you came alone today.” 

“What’s this about my father?” “And your mother. You’re a mummy’s boy, yet you have a hidden secret from dear mother. You’re not as nice as she wants you to be. Outwardly, you respect her, you follow her instructions, project an image to the world that makes her proud, project the image that she wants you to.” “I love my mother, but I’m not afraid of her!” “No, you’re not afraid of her, you’re afraid of disappointing her. Imposed perfectionism. You need to live a little for yourself, Philly and not just privately. There will come a day when you’re no longer in the shadow of your parents and you’ll be all alone in the spotlight. You will stand alone in front of the world…what will you do then?” Philip looks at me half afraid, half admiring. “You’re not alone in these feelings, both men and women struggle with these feelings.” “Was it like that with you?” He so eager…he wants to connect with me. Maybe I can indulge him just a little bit. “No, not really. My imposed perfectionism came from a completely different set of circumstances.