The Unspoken

The man in the suit loves to speak in vague terms. He knows what he means and he knows what you're saying, but when he answers back he's replying to what he means and not to what you're talking about. He wants the others who are like him to understand and nod their heads knowingly, the silent jury for a silent trial, where the charge is not clear and the verdict is hidden.

It doesn't matter what you say, or what evidence you have. He nods his head and raises his eyebrows at you, as if acknowledging your efforts as a novelty. He feigns understanding and thoughtfulness but when he opens his mouth he starts off exactly where he stopped last time. The bastard. His audience marvel at his reasoning, and wince when you speak. It is as if when you interrupt him the magic of his silk laced lies briefly interrupts their trance. You are an inconvenience, the truth is an inconvenience.

You try to find a label for him, for them, but fall short. You use the crudest of terms, and then they smile back at you cruelly. They are old, far older than you. They have been around for a long time and are used to speaking in double-tongue. It is you who doesn't know who you are. You've forgotten, or maybe you thought such silly things didn't matter anymore.  But they know exactly who you are, and they want you to pay for the sins of the fathers.

They make notes when you speak, not to consider your point of view but to use your words as evidence against you. Every name, every fact you utter, is carefully noted and kept for later. Kept to be used against you. Josef K's trial is child's play compared to what these people will do. And you will do more than die like a dog. They will make sure of that. At least Josef K was killed alone in a dark night, stabbed to death. They will kill you in the open, for all to see. Even dogs can be pitied when they die but you, you will not even be noticed.

So the man in the suit raises his hand and smiles - or maybe that is a sneer? He asks his friends to consider - as if that is even possible! - the words that you have just said. Is it not folly, not stupidity, to resist his argument? That you have tried so hard when all you needed to do was to yield? They shake their heads disapprovingly, at the arrogance that you have displayed for challenging their insanity. They sit there in their fine suits. They always dress in the finest of everything, expensive and heavy. One of them puts his hand down on the table after he had been resting his head on it. You think you can see insects crawling from out of his sleeve, but maybe you're just tired. You silly, silly child. They talk about you as if you are not in the room now, and this infuriates you. It would infuriate any person. You can rage at them, but it will not make any difference. Nothing you do will make a difference. They have closed all the doors, darkened all the windows. There is no way out, and there is no help coming.

They utter their sentence. It is as if you haven't said anything, as if the facts and events you mentioned existed only as long as you uttered the words, never going further than your lips. The lie seeps through the room's dank atmosphere like the brown liquid out of a leaking bin bag. It's cloying smell is in your clothes and your hair. And they stare at you, stare right through you. The bastards. All of them, bastards.