The officer entered the interrogation room with the file under his arm and a Starbucks cup in his right hand. The boy was in his early twenties. He kept his head down and covered his face with the hood of a black coverall soiled by the dried blood of his victims. He didn't even flinch when the officer dropped his heavy butt into the chair, allowing a long sigh to escape from between his lips covered with those scraggly little hairs called "mustaches." The officer dropped the file on the metal table and opened it, looking at the boy who didn't even have the balls to look him in the face after doing what he had done.—Take off your hood, do me a favor —He ordered roughly, but the boy ignored him— Hey, asshole, I'm talking to you. Take off your fucking hood, do you even know where you are? Do you even know why?—Oh, yes I do, officer. Don't get mad, I didn't mean to make you angry.The young man took off his hood. He was not a boy who stood out, dark brown hair, brown eyes, acne. Anyway, the officer set out to look through the file. Finding nothing interesting, he closed it and watched the boy as he took a sip of coffee.—Why did you do it? The boy let a small smile show, one that surprised the chubby officer to no end. That commanded him to pay attention to what he would say next.—"Why?" How so?The officer arched an eyebrow. Odd answer, odd way to handle something as dense as the murder of nineteen young men.—What do you mean by that? —the officer asked.—It's pretty obvious, sir. I did it because I wanted to do it.—What made you do it? Did you have someone in mind?—No. Not at all. I don't do it that way.The boy straightened his back and let it rest against the back of the chair. The officer noticed how the confidence had increased with superhuman rapidity.—So, you're telling me you've done this before?—Well... Not at this level, not with this many people... How many did I kill?The question took the officer by surprise, and he clenched his coffee glass a little. He tried to control himself, he took a deep breath, he disguised it.—Nineteen. One is in the emergency room, maybe it will go up to twenty.The boy nodded and let out a sigh. The officer suspected that the feeling accompanying that sigh was disappointment. That made him angrier.—Let's hope it goes up. —He smiled.The officer hit the table hard, already quite pissed off by the foolishness and incompetence of the young man, who obviously did not understand the seriousness of the matter.—Are you even aware of what you did? Do you even know who the hell I am? Don't laugh at me to my face, you bastard!—No, sir. I'm sorry if I did anything to make you angry. Please calm down. -He raised both hands. I didn't mean to, far from it. It's just... it's the first time someone's asked me why I'm doing this, you know?The officer remained silent, and the boy continued:—Look, I'll explain in a way you can understand. A writer writes. A painter paints pictures. A musician plays or sings. A street artist puts his art on the walls of the cities. Everyone expresses himself in the way he prefers. Did you follow me? The officer put his index finger to his lips. His look said it all.—I don't understand what you're getting at. —The boy smiled.—Isn't it obvious? Killing is a way of expressing myself. It's my own art. My canvas: the walls. My paint: blood. My brush: my weapon. And me: the artist. If I feel overwhelmed, stressed, I grab a cat, a dog, a squirrel, whatever, and express myself. If I'm luckier, I grab a nanny. But that's usually difficult, so I go the easy route.The officer, in a fit of rage, walked over the table to the boy and looked him in the eye. He had a penetrating, menacing look. The tone of his voice was already low, heavy. He was pissed off.—That shit is not art, you fucking psycho. It's not "expression," it's a crime! How old are you? For God's sake. You can't keep doing that!—Who forbids me? —The boy bowed, imitating the cop. There was no hint of remorse or fear in his eyes.—The law! The fucking law!—I mean, sir. What you're telling me is that I can't do what I like, because there's something written on a piece of paper somewhere that says I can't. —The boy looked at him visibly offended at the sane man's obvious response—. You, sir, are nothing more than a pawn in this system of censorship, of oppression! There is nothing I hate more than people like you, believing that you can violate our rights!—But what rights are you talking about, asshole?!?—My freedom of speech. I have the right to express myself however I want. And you can do absolutely nothing about it, because my rights outweigh any piece of paper.Another officer entered the room, interrupting the conversation. Without explanation, he uncuffed the boy and immediately left the room.—What are you doing? This young man is under arrest for murder!—As you just heard, Roger, it's his right. If that's the way he expresses himself and we lock him up, it would be the equivalent of taking a crayon away from a child.—I hope you find the best way to express yourself, "Roger". Channel your anger, see you soon. —He winked.And, with a smile, the boy left the room.
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