So this is something I've been working on for a few days, and I'm excited to share it with you guys. I'm not sure how long it will be; probably less than 20K words.

Some things to note before you read: this is not a happy story. If you're looking for fluff or a happy ending, look elsewhere. This story is dark, and mentions sensitive subjects like rape and suicide. So please take care reading it, okay?

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Is it worth your while to spend on a lie
even though you cannot see eye to eye,
and give in to the rumor seduction,
run by fear and all the good intentions?

- Rewind, Poets of the Fall

February 14th

She sits in the interrogation room, unmoving, barely breathing. Her eyes are locked on the table in front of her, as if the glazed wood will give her the answers that the world has denied her. She doesn't look up when the police officer walks into the room, a folder in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He sets these both down on the table in front of her, perfectly parallel to each other, and sits down across from her. He taps his pen on the table; three short raps, pause, repeat. Seemingly unaware of her movements, her arm jerks out and she grabs the pen. Without looking at him she tosses it on the floor. He doesn't seem fazed.

"You know why you're here, of course," he says conversationally, flipping open the folder. When she doesn't answer he leans back and takes a sip of the coffee, then pulls a face and carefully puts the mug back down. "Vending machine stuff. Tastes like crap."

This was apparently said for humor, but she doesn't notice. She hasn't even blinked since he entered the room. He's encountered the strong-silent type before. He's also encountered the I-know-I'm-guilty-and-I'm-not-talking-without-my-l awyer type. She doesn't seem like either of those. In fact, he's not sure she can even hear him. She seems worlds, dimensions, away.

"I'm going to have to ask you a few questions," he tries, hoping for a response. Nothing. "We found you outside a gas station an hour ago. Do you remember what happened?"

At this she closes her eyes, whether to remember the event more clearly or to try to repress it he's not sure. But it's movement at least, so he uses this momentum to propel the conversation.

"You were somewhat… incoherent," he says, picking his words carefully. "Although you did keep repeating one name over and over again. Do you remember what it was?"

Her eyes flutter open, but she doesn't look at him. She looks at the blood that's dried under her nails, at the dirt smeared across her palm. She opens her mouth like she's about to say something, but nothing comes out aside from a slight whimper. She closes her mouth again and absently flicks some dried blood off her hand.

"Listen, I know this is all probably confusing," he says gently. "You've been through something traumatic, and often that can make people reluctant to talk. You go into shock, you retreat into yourself, and you shut the world away. But I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened. Or even if you remember what happened. Do you remember?"

She hesitates, and then, ever so slightly, she nods.

Encouraged by this tiny triumph, he urges, "Can you tell me what happened?"

She takes a deep breath, then folds her arms around herself, looking suddenly very small. But there's a hard glint in her eyes, like embers on charcoal. She turns her eyes on him, meeting his gaze with such a fierce look that he almost flinches.

"My name is Spencer Jill Hastings," she says softly, her voice slightly hoarse. "And I just killed someone."

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What did you think? Interested in reading more?