"To Remain Silent"

"To Remain Silent"

”Your mother was a cunt, and she should have swallowed.”

“That’s what he said?”

“Yes, that is what he said, word for word.”

***

The officers take me into an interrogation room, allowing me nothing but the pleasure of a cold, steel chair.  

The light above us flickers along with a buzzing sound, cluing me in to the fact that there had been no renovations on this building in the last century, if not longer.

I sit with my ankles twisted behind the legs of the chair, making my shoulders hunch forward a bit.  My hair falls in front of my eyes, giving me an easy way out of making eye contact, which I never really enjoyed to begin with.  

I just keep thinking I don’t want to do this.  I don’t want to talk about this.  I don’t want to do this.

The cop stares at me, expecting me to start my side of the story, but my arms are shaking and I’m concentrating too hard on not letting anyone see it but me.   The cop tries to prompt me… bait me, more like it. 

“Why don’t we start at the beginning… where were you tonight?”

My palms start to sweat. 

The light is still buzzing, and I develop an eye twitch. I’m sweating, but I’ve got the chills. I’m holding my arms like they’re an infant, trapped against my stomach.  My eye is twitching.  My ankles are wrapped around the chair.  I am in big trouble.

“In my apartment.” 

I feel like keeping it succinct, like matching the syllables up, even with the same number in the officer’s question is the right thing to do.  It levels the playing field.  It keeps us even. In sync. 

“Was anyone with you?”

“No, I was home alone.”

I see the bad-cop nod to the silent one, and I realize that this is exactly what they’re expecting to hear out of me.  I want to tell them that it isn’t what they think, but they’ve already made up their minds about me.  Figures. 

Bad-cop’s eyes don’t really meet mine, almost like he doesn’t really care about the answer, just hoping that it will come out in a timely manner so that he can write this up, close the case and go home.  I think to myself that I am an idiot for being here, and no one really cares about my side of the story.  I should just go home, pack my shit up, and head out of here as fast as possible, but it’s too late now.  They won’t let me leave.

I aim to uncross my ankles when the silent cop finally looks up from his case folder, sighs, and tells the other cop to leave.  Bad cop stares for just a second, but indulges his partner and heads for the door, to which I breathe a sigh of relief.  I don’t like him, or his eyes.  They’re cold and steely, and made for beating hardened criminals, not people like myself.  Here is where I get to my point, my reason for being here tonight on the cold, steel chair and the buzzing light above.

Silent cop looks at me expectantly.  He knows that I know that it is time to give up the scared little girl routine and get down to brass tacks. 

“I don’t know where to start,” I said, lamely.

“Well, how about this… we’re reporting a domestic assault, correct?” he prodded.

“Yes, sir.  My boyfriend, or ex boyfriend, he came home drunk tonight and went after me.”

***

My prompt was: 

            Use the most offensive phrase you can think of in a short story no less than 500 words, without censoring it or yourself. I was challenged by Octoberesque.  I challenged Kat at Kat's Page with the challenge of "Dear Diary".  You can see how she rocked it by clicking on the little link!  

Go to Indieink.org to check out all the rest of the challenges!