Explain it to me. Please.

Why.

Simplest question possible.
Hardest answer to pin down.
Easiest thing to make someone ask, period.
“Why did you hit me.”
“Why did I have to forget my wife’s birthday.”
“Why am I holding this bloody axe.”

Why.

If someone can, explain ‘why’ to me.
Why did they tell me I’m ugly.
Why did I get picked out of the lineup.
Why did I go to prison.
Why did he do that thing to me, when I was asleep.
Why did I stab him.
Why am I never getting allowed back out.

Why.

Why do I never sleep.
Why can’t I bleed to death.
Why am I never afraid.

Why.

Why do people ask me about my escape from prison.

Why.

Keep asking it to yourself. Try it, for a few hours. You’ll go mad. Insane. Loony Tunes. Wacko. Crazy. I hear words sometimes, on the cusp of understanding. ‘Max Attak’. ‘House of Renunciation’.
‘Adept’. ‘Duke’. ‘Godwalker.’ Just words to me, half a sentence. Part of a question. The question is the only obvious part. Why me. Why him. Why her. Why a gun. Why do bird suddenly appear. Whatever words you apply to it, it always makes a question. No matter what, if you keep asking, you do find more questions than answers.

And if someone gets the brilliant idea of saying, ‘ Well, * WHY NOT ‘, I’m am going to hit them with my axe. Again and again and again. Just like I did before. And will keep doing.

So.

Just so you know.

That’s the one question I will not be answering, when I come to see you, misters Judge, Jury, and Audience at Trial. And I will finish the whole lot of you off with this damned axe-which-is-a-tattoo-on-my-arm, if takes the rest of my miserable AIDS-filled life. I will hunt you down, and take you apart.

Until you tell me.

Why.