Chapter Two

Where is a tornado put in jail to be punished? In a high pressure cell...

The snowing doesn’t stop. Over the forest it mixed with the ash, falling thick and wet. Blanketed half the state. Summertime snowfall, a first on local records. Christmas in July. Season’s greetings, all your friends are gone.

It snowed when they booked me and stole the teeth from my pocket. It snowed when they had to retake my mugshot. When they said to not stick my tongue out. When I described exactly where I would stick my tongue instead. And it snows as I sit in a small box of an interrogation room.

Finally someone enters, accompanied by our warden and sits in the sad, metal folding chair across the table where my chains are anchored.

"Annalise Giroux. RCMP."

Annalise, Annalise the analyst with a voice like a radio talk show host.

"Where's your horse?" I smirk through bloodshot eyes.

“Hmm," it adds a packet of sugar to styrofoam coffee. "Have I spent three weeks chasing a deranged preteen.”

“You betcha Mountie, I’d shake your hand but,” my cuffs clink together, “new jewelry.”  

I remember giggling at the guard who bound my wrists and ankles, kinky.

The warden shakes it’s head as it leaves us. “Screams all night and now he decides to be civil.”

“Let’s see,” the Mountie opens a thick, manila folder. “Acheron Rippir. Sixteen years old. Canadian citizen. Regional police department called you what? A disorganized killer? Necrophiliac? Impulsive? Narcissistic? A latent homosexual?”

"Latent?" I snort shakily. "Oh please."

"Now while outdated-"

"What else is in there?” I pitch forward towards the teeming file. “Inherently evil demon-spawn perhaps?"

It shrugs, voice still even, unwavering, almost sleepy, "Everything except a motive."

"What part of inherently evil didn't you catch?" I snap scathingly.

"You claim to be evil, that's fine. You claim to be The Weather Man, that's fine. However much attention you need to sate your MySpace withdrawal. But if I find out you're just another copycat here to waste my time-"

I bat my eyelashes coyly, "Officer-"

"-I will personally ensure you never see parole."

"And if I am your killer?"

"Then I'll be there to flip the switch." With that it rises from it’s seat, signaling to the guards watching us through the two-way.

Later as I wait in my holding cell wondering why I can’t stop the snow, my DNA nominates me for Most Wanted. Before I know it I’m autographing confessions, admissions and waivers. Looks like I win. My illustrious prize; prestigious status as a high profile inmate, glamorous solitary confinement in the Oklahoma State Penitentiary and an exclusive prioritized court date where I'll be tried not as minor but as an adult! How 'bout a round of applause...

Only as we pass the ominous, razor-wire gates into the bleak prison yard does the gravity of the situation hit. If I can't stop the snow. I can't summon it either. I can't get out. Without him I have no concentration, no focus, no point. He was the eye of my storm and he's gone. Now I'm completely out of control. Separated from my friends I feel like an extracted organ-or no, a parasite, with no body to serve. A viral disease with no host.

There's only one thing left I can do.

Next time we meet I don’t wait til it reaches the chair before declaring. “The waitress in Moncton. Husband and wife in Quebec City. The border guard, the messy one in Maine, Suzanne from the bar.” I take note of my Mountie’s expression as I list them off. “Luke. Terri? Whoops that's a new one.” The police wouldn't have released the names of minors to the press after what I did. We both know this. “When it comes down to it, there's nothing in your fancy little government standard documents that I can't already tell you."

“Alright talk.” The usual disinterest is replaced by a new analytical conviction. I’ll take it.

I recline, a self-satisfied smile toying with my lips. “The Weather Man, because no one could predict when he would strike. It's cute right? Not the nom de guerre I would've chosen but sure.”

It leans in slightly, engaging. “Media says you have a sexual fascination with storms. That you kill when the weather acts up.”

“Or maybe the weather acts up when I kill.”

The ropy muscles in it’s neck tense, all in clear view courtesy of it’s military style haircut. “Psychopaths often have delusions of grandeur, inflated self-worth, set unrealistic goals. What were yours? What were you hoping to achieve?”

Outlasting my teens, going steady with my boyfriend, friends, better pants...all pretty f*****g impossible. "Oh, y’know. Spread the unholy plague. Slaughter those who can't be herded. Create an army of slaves in hell. That sorta sha-bang.”

"Was killing your friends always a part of that plan? Or did that just sort of...happen?"

I begin to gnaw on my hands. Somewhere distant thunder rumbles through the blizzard. This pig has no clue, no clue, no clue. I tilt my head and grind my teeth. No clue.

The interrogation is cut short.

I’m trapped in the purgatory between beige and grey. The walls, the jumpsuits, the food, all of it, an awful muted taupe. I find myself constantly reminded of my parents. I only got to talk to my folks once; they seemed tired but not entirely unsurprised. Dad smelled of heady smoke, Mom kept forgetting why I had handcuffs on. I told them not to worry about the trial, that I know what I’m doing. Give ‘em the old razzle dazzle.

And that's how I end up on death row.

By giving the testimonial equivalent of pissing all over the courtroom. Lady Justice may be blind but she can still taste perfectly well. I think my lawyer cried.

Giroux brought me back in for questioning afterwards. I enjoy our visits. They are all that breaks the monotony. The boredom that rapes your mind into pieces.

“I thought you were smarter than this. No one’s going to take pity on you. The public wants to see you dead. And that’s all you’re going to accomplish. What game are you playing?”

I try out a maniacal laugh and end up coughing so hard I fall from my chair. At least, I fall as far as my chains allow, dangling like the trout we used to catch in Porcupine River. The metal bites my skin, unrelenting. I sway listlessly peering up at the Mountie through overgrown bangs. It towers above me, imposing and absolute. "I spent a long time hunting you down. All of a sudden you just stop. Come willingly. Why?"

“Your name’s pretty.” Spit drips into my eyelashes, “What is that? Métis?”

It stares at me through dark, heavily lidded eyes. “You don't scare me little boy.”

“Cool.” I flip myself upright. “I'm glad I have a friend in here Mountie. Wouldn't want it to be a stranger who fries me. I trust you to do the job right. Smooth and professional. No mistakes. No problem. No doubt. Like a reverse Frankenstein.” I give a jolting spasm. “Who knows you might even like it.”

“We’re done here,” it gives a wave and the same guard I giggled at escorts me out.

“I loved you in Due South!” I shout as the door slams behind me.

In the coming weeks I dream up new pants, encrusted with emeralds and fox fur. Watch the last remnants of nail polish grow off me. Think of all the library books long overdue. Miss the sizzle of rain on hot pavement. I’ve formed the hypothesis, that heat doesn't exist. It was only ever a figment of my imagination. Product of a fevered mind. There is just the cold; cold so absolute it'll make your skin feel like it's burning but still just the cold. There is only one person who could convinced me heat is real. But she's gone.

It's been a month when the feeling flares up. The first time, I actualize my bedpost’s potential as a scalpel. I take all the skin off my hands. They put it back. The second time, they’ve bolted my furniture to the floor so I turn on all the faucets. The murky puddle is my son. He is named Antonio. He grows and grows and then he dries all up. I'm glad I’ll die knowing the sensation of parenthood. The third time, I cut at my gums until after a lot of sweaty, naked wrestling on the grimy concrete floor-an incisor comes loose. It’s smooth enamel is inexplicably calming. I pray to it every night and hide it in my ear. As you do with every god.

“I used to know someone named Annie y’know...” This is our last meeting.

“You used to know someone named Mark Chance too.” It slides a snapshot across the table. A boy with his face lies on a morgue table, but it’s wrong. So wrong. It’s a pile of meat with his face. “You were pretty fond of him weren't you? What made you change your mind?”

No. No. No, this is wrong I saved him. I saved him. “What do you want from me?!” I scream frustratedly. “I’ve told you everything you want to hear. I'm your goddamn manipulator!  Your psychotic cult leader! Your Charles Manson. Your Jim Jones. The big evil reason why. They were all unstable, susceptible dumb a*s kids and I coerced them. Brainwashed, blackmailed whatever. I’m f*****g crazy and it's all my fault. What more do you want?”

“I want the whole story.”

“Trust me that's even f*****g crazier. You'd never buy it. So here's what we’ll do instead,” I hiss through the tears. “You’ll pin the blame on me. Close this case. Go ahead. I don’t care. But leave my friends out if it. You don't know them. You never will.”  I don’t see my Mountie for a long time after that.

He isn't dead. I know he isn’t. He can’t be. Or else I would be mourning.

No he’s not dead; he lives in my dreams so I sleep almost religiously. Every hour is prolonged nightfall. Is this how I should live? What does reality house anymore? Four walls reflecting me back on me back on me back on me back on me me me me me.

Without an audience I am forced to realize my entire existence has been an inside joke with the universe. And come to think of it I never remember laughing.

When the day comes it's Giroux who gets my from my cell.  As it clamps on the transport chains I don't make any jokes or snide remarks, just let it do it's job. I leave my room in silence without a backwards glance. There's nothing left for me here; they confiscated my tooth as a weapon.

While the security cameras aren’t looking I whisper, “Hey Mountie here's a clue, Peter 2:4.”

At the end of the hall it hands me to over to it’s partner and departs with no outward signs of understanding or a goodbye.

“This is goddamn archaic.” The warden mutters as I’m paraded by. “Can’t believe Governor Fallin pulled rank on me.”

We enter the plexiglass stage where dozens of strangers sit outside in orderly rows to watch the show. This is just another middle school play. I’m strapped to the chair that becomes my alter. An offering to their deities of lawfulness. A young corrections officer places the saline sponge on my scalp, dripping down like the tears I will not cry. The other officers don’t ask me for last words, they’ve heard enough already.

With my copper plated headpiece all hooked up, and a black shroud covering my face I hope I make a satisfactory sacrifice. In this moment I am oddly void of fear or regret.

Truth is, I died with them that night.

It’s only catching up to me now.

I close my eyes. And all I see, is green as Eden.