Sirens of distress fill the air and a cacophony of voices—mostly from concerned neighbors. I stood up, examined it one more time–the blood dripping down and now hardening. It turned a dark shade of brown.
Loud sharp thuds on the door and a voice, "Police! Open up!"
When I don't open—another set of knocks, insistent and louder. "Police! Open up!"
They aren't gonna go down easy, huh? I return the knife to its rightful place—within the wooden constraints. Tightly enclosing each of the sharp objects. I didn't bother cleaning it since there were more urgent issues waiting to be let in.
Dark red speckles coated my shirt in scattered a pattern—almost like a painting of sorts. The carpet swallowed my boots' songs—a steady rhythm of Beethoven's classics. I opened the door. Police in their usual gear stood there waiting for me to say something.
"Didn't think you'd show up, Officers," I say, a smirk forming at the corner of my lips—sinister in a way. Tilting my head I scan them like a predator.
In the interrogation room—cold, sterile with not much life.
I sat my hand chained to the table leg. The metal cuff dug into my skin—burning against the friction. They didn't let me get away. That's disappointing. Clock ticked above me on the white almost empty wall.
On my way here, the reporters shoved their big cameras into my face asking rude questions—although I could care less. I had given them an answer—creeping them out. I smirk at thought of them shivering in their boots.
While in the other cell I met Rick—tattoos lined both his arms, and a rugged black t-shirt and black pants. Jacket too. Black. Just like my soul.
"Miss Graves?" A voice, gruff—aged like wine asks. His hair is graying slightly, and is dressed casually. The badge swayed as he sat down with a folder and notebook—small, and not too big.
"Who's asking?"
His face doesn't shift in emotion—there's no sympathy in them. Zero sympathy. I wasn't expecting anything or was I?
The blood on my hands seemed to start to dry now even with me being cuffed. The air smelled of desperation and coffee—dark and bitter.
Advice from 'Janice' sliced something deep open within me. And she just happened to be there.
The detective cleared his throat before saying, "Well…. The evidence will state what's going on and if you are indeed capable of such a henious crime…"
"You say that like it's a bad thing. I simply see it as…. Justice."
Ah great. He's interested. You know what? I am not going to say anything else.
He kept asking and I was committed to being silent. Question after question was asked. And me being me, let myself not say a damn word.
He got tired of it and decided to put me in a cell.
**
Someone thinks their advice is valid, but really it's useless anyway. But the cell next to mine wasn't empty either. A tattooed stranger slept there as I sat there doing the exact opposite. I stared at him.
"You're staring…." A deep voice said. And it came from this stranger it seemed like.
"I wasn't... staring," I reply sharply. The outfit I was wearing earlier had to be taken as evidence. Now I'm donning a boring t-shirt with no personality. "Just so you know–"
"Just so you know, you are going to be stupid by revealing everything."
He sat up now, staring at me. "I would bang you up against that wall if only I was in your cell," he added, smirking–eyes roaming up and down my body.
"Pervert," I mutter.
"You killed someone didn't you?" he tilts his head as he says that. How the fuck does he know?