The Interrogation

The clock ticked on the wall. It marked the minutes of silence as they slipped by. The detective stared at me, waiting. It felt cold in the room, just enough to be uncomfortable, though I could feel the sweat pricking beneath my skin.

The detective moved, shifting his weight slightly and pushed a notepad and pen in front of him. “I just need to know what happened. Can you tell me what happened?” My thoughts raced. He can’t know.

Blood dripped off the ends of my fingers in slow viscous strings as I stared down at them. I could feel it on my skin, my arms itching as flecks dried and stuck to the hairs. All I could hear was a ringing noise in my ears, blocking out every other sound around me. All I could see was blood. The only thing grounding me in reality was the weight of the blade in my hand.

The detective cleared his throat, and I was pulled abruptly out of my memory. My mouth felt dry. I took a sip of the water they had brought in for me. Probably another tactic, but I needed it. He can’t know.

I walked down the empty street. It was late, dark. The sun had been set for some time. I could hear dogs barking around me, the sound of a distant car horn, the hum of the highway that always seemed alive, but everything was quiet otherwise. Your typical night.

The detective broke through my train of thought as he got up and paced behind his chair. I shook myself a little, trying to remember what I had been saying. He motioned for me to continue.

There had been something off about the quiet that night, like something had been something lurking in the shadows. I walked my usual route - around the block and down to the little park behind the coffee shop my neighbour frequented. The water trickled slowly through the trees, the sound calming my nerves.

The sharp smell of blood was what had tipped me off to the man. He was lying in the bushes. Blood and sweat covered his face, and I watched in shock as he reached out to me. I could just barely hear him whispering to me. “Please help me.”

It took me a few moments before I knelt down beside him, searching for the source of the increasing amount of red painting the bushes and ground beneath him. Where he held himself tipped me off in the end.

The detective wrote as I spoke, glancing down at small jotted notes scrawling across the page while he watched me tell my story.

I could tell I'd found the wound when he sucked in a sharp breath. I took my jumper off, pressing the fabric to the wound to try to staunch the bleeding. I could tell the man was trying to say something to me, but it seemed like blood had begun to well in his mouth, making it difficult to say anything. “You’ll rot for this” “Please. Please. Help.” He seemed to be mouthing it over and over again, blood spilling over the edge of his lips as he pleaded with me. I tried to reassure him as I attempted to hold him together for long enough-

“You never called the police.” I blinked. Reality seeped through the image in my mind, of the man bleeding out. “I didn’t have my phone on me at the time. I leave it at home for my nightly walks so I can truly unwind from the day.” He accepted my explanation and I took a breath, relaxing back into the picture.

I tried to reassure him as blood started to soak through my jumper. I could tell he was close to the end when he started to struggle. He’d clawed at my arms like I could anchor his soul to the world of the living. I tried to comfort him in his last moments. “Not long now. Soon the pain will be gone” “save me a seat.” I held him as he took his last breath.

The detective watched my face closely, his searching gaze making me itch.

It felt wrong, his weight in my arms, so limp and lifeless. I had sat there for a while. I wasn’t sure how long it was before I moved. I put him down on the ground and ran to the nearest house. We were further from the houses than I had thought. I’d had to run for a bit. The woman who opened the door was horrified when she saw me covered in blood. When I explained what had happened, she called the police.

The detective watched me from across the table, his eyes flicking over my face. He seemed to be looking for something there. Whatever it was, I hoped he didn’t find it. A few more minutes passed as we sat. The clock ticked on the wall. It marked the seconds of silence slipping away. Slowly, the detective got up to leave, gathering his notepad and pen and leaving me with my glass of water.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”