My Mark Found Me

I keep coming back to those two words: CLAIMANT IDENTIFIED. Not suspected. Not questioned. Identified. The split-notch mark is mine, and somewhere behind that screen is a record tying it to me. I saved every frame, naturally. If fear were something I could preserve in duplicate, I would keep three copies.

The funniest part is how long I have depended on marks, maps and hidden compartments making me difficult to pin down. One small scratch of judgement, and the whole trick stops working. I stood in front of the cameras feeling almost naked while the rain went on ignoring me. Public courage has a terrible way of shrinking when someone announces your name to a room full of strangers.

I nearly chose the chase I understand: Venn, the van, anything I could carry away in my own hands. Instead I am turning towards the contractor. That feels colder and much more dangerous. I can already imagine the journalist asking how sure I am, and me pretending the answer came from evidence rather than the need to put someone else behind the lens.

There is also that hidden find I never declare. Tonight I wondered whether my split-notch mark has always been less like a claim and more like a confession. The room was very quiet. I do not want it seen. I do not want to explain it.

I am frightened, but not paralysed. I will keep score. I will find the contractor. And God help anyone who mistakes my silence for proof that I have no evidence.