The Lines Between Us | ✔

|.10.|

September 10th, 12:53 pm,

Bella

About half an hour later, I am seated in a small, boxed-off room. It's nothing like the ones you see on television. There is no two-way black screen, so the outsiders can see in. There is no impending light shining directly on my face, intimidatingly. It's just a plain little room. There are three mini sofas- black, and barely large enough to fit one human in. The floor is hard: formed with multiple types of wood, all thrown together to create a chevron pattern.

Though the room is comforting enough, the walls are a hard white color. Two single pictures hang from the wall- holding my sanity in place. They seem to be the only thing keeping the room alive. I can't make out what the photos are, they are too abstract. To me, they look like splodges of black paint. Lifeless, black splodges. I suppose to an artist, they would probably see an entire world in the pictures, but I don't. They're like the ones in movies. The ones where they ask you what a picture looks like and show you a black splodge. The answer is always something related to death.

My body is placed in one of the three chairs, facing forwards. The two chairs in front of me are occupied by the policeman and F.B.I agent. Separating us is a small white table, with a barely live plant. Its leaves are wilted and colored an unpleasant brown shade. Dead both inside and out. Like me right now. Next to the plant is two cups of water. There is one for me, and a separate one for the constable. The sparsely furnished room is lit by a few icy lights, casting a dull blue-green hue onto all the furniture. Next to one of the lights is a small -- but very noticeable -- camera, targeting my face directly.

I focus on my breathing, unknowingly twiddling my fingers together. I am scared. I have done nothing wrong, but I feel unprotected. Ash isn't with me anymore.

The bulbous man picks up a drink and takes a long gulp. ''Bella, I am P.C Peter Marshall, and this is Detective Clarkson,'' He nods his head in the direction of the rangy man. I tilt my mouth up at him. He doesn't reply, nor does he smile. He merely clasps his hands together into one large fist. I am intimidated just sitting in this room- he doesn't give me any added release. ''We are here to get a statement of exactly what happened last night,'' He grumbles. ''We would also like to photograph any potential injuries caused in the. . . incident.'' The way he says incident makes it seem like this whole thing was accidental. Like I wasn't the victim in a potential murder. ''You don't have to consent to this, but it would be very helpful during the investigation.''

My mouth dries from the nerves. I am the victim in this situation, but everyone seems to be making me doubt myself. I am still unsure if this is even real. Leaning forward, I pick up the cup, bringing it to my lips. I pause, taking a breath before taking a small sip.

''You have the right to be updated by us personally in any new information during the investigation, and or if the suspect is taken into custody.'' Chills shatter through my body in the realization that he may not be caught. He is still out there. Once he knows I survived, he will come back for me. Maybe he will even be successful next time. I got lucky this time. Luck won't always be on my side.

Readjusting myself, I place the cup back down on the table, returning to counting each finger on my hand. Noticing my struggle, Peter reassures me, ''He will not be able to get to you, Bella,'' As if it will comfort me. He sounds unsure of it himself, which only makes me more anxious.

Dread flows through me, making my stomach ache and breathing speed up. Taking a minute to compose myself, I reply, ''Okay.'' I don't mean it. I'm not okay. None of this is okay.

''Your mother has booked a lawyer, Lisa Scott, she will be attending shortly,'' Peter states, helping me concentrate. At the mention of her name, a tall woman enters. She has a figure very similar to Mr. Clarkson's, but with softer features. A much more welcoming smile is pulled from one side of her cheek to the other as she greets me. She nods for me to stand up, and signals for me to head outside.