04/03 | 4:53am
Suspended.
Aware but unmoving.
I should be dead by now. So why am I still here? I stopped feeling cold long ago. Stopped feeling my lungs expand after my last deep, numbing, breath. I thought if I breathed in, it would stop; if I filled myself with the piercing liquid around me, it would bring me rest. But I’m still here. I know if I were still “alive” I’d be crying now, but I can’t. I wanted the pain to stop, but I didn’t want this. Not this. I can’t do this. I begged with the last of my sanity that this was simply my last synapses firing. My finale promenade.
Please.
I want to rest.
Don’t I deserve that?
04/03 | 6:15am
“Why did you kill her?”
The question has no effect. Surly they know, he thinks. I’m not the first. Maybe that they’ve seen, but not of all time. We are infamous.
I look up at them before sniffing and resting my eyes on my hands cuffed in front of me. As I began to fidget, I spoke: “Wasn’t it stories like mine that made you get into being a cop?” I looked up. “Or was it because you saw Daddy hit Mommy and thought a badge mi- ”
The table I am chained to rattles with the slamming hands of one of the men on the other side. His sweaty imprints left in the wake.
I look back down, returning focus to my hands. “bullseye” I mutter.
After a minute or two, when this action drew monotonous, I took a deep breath of the stale, sweat-stained air and leaned back, looking past the two men. The angry one, portly, with the cop cut, flat top – faded edges. And a thinner, bald man in a suit. Bureau type who had a look in his eyes that was too familiar. Looking at the mirror behind them, right where I imagine someone of greater importance is looming, watching.
“Surly, you have something better than this to throw at me.”
With that, the angered man storms out, the other watching his back, before turning to me with resignation and following in tow.
Before their exit, eyes held straight at the person ahead, I mutter,
“Because I could”
They stop, looking at me, one set of eyes in shock.
“I killed her cause I could.” I said, turning to the suited man before looking back at my target, “Now, if you want to know where her body is, I’ll need better than that.” Spending extra care on the last few words, notching my head in their directions.
The snub, finally enough to get them both to leave, the door closing slowly in their wake, caring very little for the attempted slamming motion from “daddy’s favorite” as the soft close, cares little for rage or intrigue.
And before long, the door opens again…