pressure (pushing down on me)

turnabout sisters

II.

2016.

They hold him for questioning for what feels like days. Near the end of it, the detectives interviewing him aren't pleased, because the questions remain the same, the answers remain the same, the truth remains the same, and he can barely stop from screaming himself hoarse every time they say "the deceased".

Mia is dead.

His fingers are freezing. He's said 'I don't know' so many times it hurts to spit out the words. I don't know who killed her. I don't know why her sister was there. I don't know who had a grudge against her. I don't know, I don't know.

He can't get it out of his head. The wrecked office. A red pool turned black in the dark. The stench of blood, like the rusting iron of his bike chain.

He suddenly feels sick. He lurches to his feet out of the interrogation chair, hand clapping over his mouth, and the detectives interviewing him make noises of alarm.

"Hey, buddy, do you need a—"

He rips his hand upward, finger in the air to say, Don't, because I will spew on you and I won't even feel bad. His eyes slam closed, tears brimming in his eyelashes, and he swallows away acid, sweat dampening his lower back.

"Mr. Wright—"

"Are we done?" he rasps. His hands drop to grip the back of his metal chair. He can barely feel them, they're so cold. Just like the feel of her through her suit jacket, heat fading to leave nothing left at all.

"Mr. Wright, if you could—"

"Are we done," he says, voice raw. "I—I told you everything I know. It's been hours, please...I. I'm finished with this."

The two detectives look at each other, their features blurry and nondescript in his vision. The words of his therapist trickle into his head. Don't be afraid to be assertive, especially if you feel unsafe, or close to panic. Do not apologize for needing space.

"Look," he says, the shake abandoning his voice as he remembers how, exactly, he was trained to speak with cops. "Am I under arrest? Am I a suspect?"

One of the detectives scowls as the other shakes his head. "No, sir—"

"Then I'm within my rights to call this interview to an end," he says coldly. "You remember I'm a lawyer, right? It's three o'clock in the morning, and we have been here for hours. Holding me this long without a break when you have no intention of charging me is unprofessional at best and unconstitutional at worst." His exhale leaves his mouth like a javelin, air forcing through his clenched jaw. "I'm tired." My friend was murdered, he almost says, but the words falter in his throat.

He releases the chair, and loosening his grip sends ache through icy fingers. "I'm going home. You have my information. Just call me if you need anything else."

He turns on a heel towards the door, and neither detective stops him.

<><><>

He collapses on his couch at home and passes out. He wakes up barely four hours later, sunlight blinding him, with the salt of tears on his face.

He doesn't remember what he was dreaming about, but he doesn't have to imagine.

<><><>

He forces himself to get dressed. He doesn't necessarily know why, at first, he has no destination in mind—his body moves robotically, operating on instinct as his mind moves in slurries. It almost feels like his mind has been emptied out and filled with grey water; every once in a while, his thoughts snag on a rock in the current, but he rejects lingering, deeper emotion in favor of the drift. Before he knows it, he's spraying wrinkle ease onto his suit jacket and jamming his feet into his loafers, but he stops with one shoe unfinished, the laces dangling from his fingers.