It's really quite amazing what the imagination can do. The way the mind will distort an idea, distort a moment in time with the rush of adrenals. The hardest part of questioning a suspect isn't being able to tell the difference between a suspect's lie and a truth. It's whether the suspect i believes /i it's true or not. It's the difference between make believe and fact. There are three variables to take into account when questioning a suspect or witness.
Truth, lies, and the dream.
The dream that the red mess spilled slick, hot, and sticky across his lips is only jam. That the look in those haunting red eyes is only hunger. Yes, hunger because he wants the jam too, that's why he's kissing you, lapping at your lips and sucking at your tongue like a feral animal.
Yes, it's only jam, it's not J...James...James Atterson.
J...B...Beyond...J for jam. J for jealous. J for blue jay. Anything and everything but little James Atterson.
You could convince yourself of that until the blood on your lips has been properly cleaned away by a British boy child-genius, until that foul coppery taste on your mouth starts tasting sweet as strawberries.
Was your mind rattled on a toxic dose of fear from the beginning, enough to plead yourself innocent, or did you i want /i to believe that it was only jam?
Maybe that was i his /i reasoning behind it. It was only jam after all, not J, because surely J had nothing in his frail, trembling, intelligent bones that he had to fear. He couldn't possibly be a sin waiting to happen, a dream child that could possibly raise above him.
Tell yourself it was only jam on your lips, getting shoved down your throat. Tell yourself that and try not to wake up choking in your sleep, terrors of children hiding under your bed. Live a lie, a little make believe. After all, you loved him once, didn't you?
