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-Angel
"Why is that?" Tight Bun Tara asks. When I stare at her, she clarifies: "What 'reality' felt like a slap to the face?"
My back straightens. She knows damn well what. "They said I was lying."
Her eyes move from mine down to the paper in front of her. Pen in hand, she scribbles her notes across the page. "How did that make you feel?"
I scoff. "How do you think?"
"Betrayed?" Her eyebrows lift over the squared rim of her glasses.
I'm very tempted to scream, "DUH!" But calmly explain, "Betrayed is an accurate description."
"Did they tell you what they believe happened? What their theories were?" It's Darren asking this time.
I nod then look at the microphone, remembering I'm supposed to speak. "Yes, they did."
"And can you repeat those theories to me?" Tight Bun Tara asks.
She's probing. Why? A weight settles between my shoulders as I ponder the question. Since the beginning of this interview, Tight Bun Tara has seemed the nicest, or maybe the most accessible of the three people questioning me. The direction she's taking right now and the way her pen keeps flying across her notepad gives me the feeling that I have misjudged her. Maybe her soft demeanor was meant to fool me.
All the faith I had-more than I realized, judging by the rampant disappointment coming on like a wave, vibrating through my chest-all that faith in her, in the belief that she would see me, the person inside; the love and dreams that I've lost . . . the hope.
It's gone.
I can feel myself shrinking, deflated like a popped balloon. Only, I am not trying to block them out. My legs are not curling up, my arms are not clinging to my stomach. Still, I feel as if I am being oppressed, losing energy and I can't stop it. I don't think I want to.
My breathing becomes labored. My eyes lose focus.
+ + +
45
-Avery
I remember very well, the whole pathetic scenario.
The cops had me cuffed, sitting in the interrogation room. I was giving as much attitude as I got. From the moment I was bulldozed into the station, the whole set-up reeked of a bad cop show-some chick-cop set each of my fingers over an ink pad then rolled them, one at a time, onto a page with boxes that labeled each print with a name and corresponding digit. She said the ink would wash right off, but my finger tips and palms were covered in inky blotches for days after.
Then, I was strapped into a hard plastic chair and left alone for hours inside a little room as they attempted to bore me to death.
When the two idiot cops that arrested me finally came in, saying stupid things like, "play time is over," all I could do was laugh in their faces. I mean, who they fuck did they think they were? They didn't know me.
I sat there as the two cops hammered me with question after question. They were too worked up to bother hearing anything I said, so I dropped my head, trying to reach my cuffed, discolored fingers with my mouth. I wanted to lick them, to see if the ink would bleed.
". . . You wouldn't know anything about that would you?" The younger cop, Gutierrez his badge said, preached at me, still pretending to want answers.
I took the opening-it was too easy. "Know that you're a tool? No one had to tell me. It's obvious."
Leland was the other guy. He looked older and was dressed in street clothes with a badge hanging around his neck. He raised a hand at the younger cop, Gutierrez. My guess was to keep him from hitting me.
"The old neighbor lady . . . Mrs. Smith, she says you stole her car keys right off her kitchen table. A vehicle registered, to her, was found parked in the motel lot and your prints are all over it. Got any idea how that happened?" Leland asked.
Watching my black-tipped fingers resting against the metal chair, they looked strange, like they weren't mine. They were just sitting there, like rude guests ignoring my commands to find a way out. Limp noodles.
"Look, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. But you have to promise Angel walks. She had nothing to do with any of this." I imagined we were in the middle of a scene on one of those cheesy cop shows. I was trying to sound exactly like a suspect that the cops had in custody, whose instincts told them was guilty, but they couldn't nail for lack of evidence. I thought I did okay.
Just like a cop show, Leland took a pencil from his shirt pocket and smacked it onto the table. "We're not accepting any of your crazy bullshit. Tell the truth." He shoved a notepad beside it and pushed both across the tabletop until they were right in front of me, just within and yet without, my reach.
