(no subject)
I realized that what I must have looked like. I was slightly hunched over, in an odd pose. I had been holding the knife with a delicate grip, with the blade lazily pointing away from my palm at a sharp angle. The expression on Debra's face was inquisitive, but concerned. Her jaw clenched slightly and she looked a bit confused.
I'm not sure what happened next, but I can guess. My grip on the knife must have tightened as the blade moved parallel to my wrist at a deliberate angle. While before I had been tiptoeing with light steps, my feet were probably planted firmly to the ground. My steps would still be light, but quick and even more quiet. I'm glad I don't know what happened, but I do wish I knew where the body was. Because I'm still not sure if Debra deserved it or not, or if she was on it. If she was as innocent as I am, then I think I'd like to swing by her grave and pay my respects.
I think about how much I know her, and who I thought she was. I liked coming in to the office in the mornings and giving her a quick hello while she sat behind the desk. She'd raise her head and give me a curt nod and a warm smile.
Perhaps if I had ever actually said more to Debra than "Hello.", then I might have known more about her. I might have noticed the small stack of business cards that she kept on her desk. I might have picked up one of her business cards and noticed that her email address was listed "debra8k@processservices.com". I might have asked her "Why Debra8k?". Most employee email addresses at Process Services consisted of a first name and a last initial. I might have assumed that maybe there was another Debra with the same last initial as the Debra I had known and that the "8k" was added on by some strange automated email assignment system, but I would have been wrong.
I'm going to talk to you now about markers. They're not always accurate. They're more like guide posts. Little clues that tell someone that they're in the right direction. You have to be inquisitive. You know that you're looking for a receptionist at Process Services, but you can never be certain that on the day your looking for that receptionist that she hasn't called in sick and been replaced by a temp. You have to look for a marker. In the case of Debra, you'd walk up to her, look at her business card and notice her email address with the "8k" attached. You'd ask her if it was her card, to be sure you have the right person.
My marker was my license plate. Every day, I'd park my motorcycle on a small section of sidewalk outside of the building just by the entrance. It wasn't parked in actual space, but no one who worked there seemed to mind. They might have even prefer I not take up a whole space in the parking lot, because sometimes parking was sparse. There was plenty of concrete laid out in front of the building's large entrance, so my bike never got in anyone's way. I always parked my bike in such a way that my license plate was prominently displayed. "8gb", out there for everyone to see. It was a very short tag number, so short that I was a bit surprised when my license plate was assigned to me. But I didn't think much of it. Every day someone would come in and ask me if that was my bike, and I just assumed it was because they admired it. Maybe they did, but mostly they were looking for me. 8gb. Eight gigabytes of storage. I had made the connection, but it would have been to insane to think that my randomly assigned license plate number had any kind of significance.
To this day, I have no idea how they would activate the eight gigabytes of information inside my head. The process is so smooth that in the early days I didn't even have any blank spots in my memory. I don't know if they activate me right there at the office, or at another more private time. But all the blood that I've had to wash off my hands and out of my clothes gives me a good idea of what just what kind of information that eight gigabytes pertains to, and it gives me a pretty good idea of just what exactly people use me for.
I'm not sure what happened next, but I can guess. My grip on the knife must have tightened as the blade moved parallel to my wrist at a deliberate angle. While before I had been tiptoeing with light steps, my feet were probably planted firmly to the ground. My steps would still be light, but quick and even more quiet. I'm glad I don't know what happened, but I do wish I knew where the body was. Because I'm still not sure if Debra deserved it or not, or if she was on it. If she was as innocent as I am, then I think I'd like to swing by her grave and pay my respects.
I think about how much I know her, and who I thought she was. I liked coming in to the office in the mornings and giving her a quick hello while she sat behind the desk. She'd raise her head and give me a curt nod and a warm smile.
Perhaps if I had ever actually said more to Debra than "Hello.", then I might have known more about her. I might have noticed the small stack of business cards that she kept on her desk. I might have picked up one of her business cards and noticed that her email address was listed "debra8k@processservices.com". I might have asked her "Why Debra8k?". Most employee email addresses at Process Services consisted of a first name and a last initial. I might have assumed that maybe there was another Debra with the same last initial as the Debra I had known and that the "8k" was added on by some strange automated email assignment system, but I would have been wrong.
I'm going to talk to you now about markers. They're not always accurate. They're more like guide posts. Little clues that tell someone that they're in the right direction. You have to be inquisitive. You know that you're looking for a receptionist at Process Services, but you can never be certain that on the day your looking for that receptionist that she hasn't called in sick and been replaced by a temp. You have to look for a marker. In the case of Debra, you'd walk up to her, look at her business card and notice her email address with the "8k" attached. You'd ask her if it was her card, to be sure you have the right person.
My marker was my license plate. Every day, I'd park my motorcycle on a small section of sidewalk outside of the building just by the entrance. It wasn't parked in actual space, but no one who worked there seemed to mind. They might have even prefer I not take up a whole space in the parking lot, because sometimes parking was sparse. There was plenty of concrete laid out in front of the building's large entrance, so my bike never got in anyone's way. I always parked my bike in such a way that my license plate was prominently displayed. "8gb", out there for everyone to see. It was a very short tag number, so short that I was a bit surprised when my license plate was assigned to me. But I didn't think much of it. Every day someone would come in and ask me if that was my bike, and I just assumed it was because they admired it. Maybe they did, but mostly they were looking for me. 8gb. Eight gigabytes of storage. I had made the connection, but it would have been to insane to think that my randomly assigned license plate number had any kind of significance.
To this day, I have no idea how they would activate the eight gigabytes of information inside my head. The process is so smooth that in the early days I didn't even have any blank spots in my memory. I don't know if they activate me right there at the office, or at another more private time. But all the blood that I've had to wash off my hands and out of my clothes gives me a good idea of what just what kind of information that eight gigabytes pertains to, and it gives me a pretty good idea of just what exactly people use me for.