𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴

Lily

☆═━┈┈━═☆

Red lights blinking, Feet nervously shuffling around the room, A man to the left continuously rubs his coarse hands against the soft fabric of his hooded sweater.
#

"Why don't you start from the top?" the only female detective in the room clears the lumps from the center of her throat to mutter a single request. The social worker rubs my arm in reassurance that I should start speaking.

"Where's the top?" I replied almost sarcastically.

"Just as early as you can remember" She pressed on.

As early as I can remember? I can remember the first time we ever spoke. He was a short timid little boy, not too much younger than I. I was sitting in my pink undertone bedroom, playing with a holly pocket doll. One of those blonde dolls that came with a case. The one you can change the clothes on, but the clothes are sticky rubber pieces with slits down the back. I always hated the feeling of the rubber against my thumbs.

"I'm not sure I can remember..." I lied.

"Just try." A male detective barks from across the dark camera lit room.

"Start with his name...maybe a description?" The social worker sympathizes.

"His name? I don't see why it matters." I muttered in resistance.

"A name." The same male detective asserts his poisoned dominance as if he's following the cop shows on tv, playing bad cop.

"Syrous. He's just shy of 2 years younger than me." I say playing along with his routine.

"How old are you?" the female detective asks, knowing the answer already. I guess she just asked for the record, for the blinking cameras.

"Sixteen." I murmur in hopes the cameras can't hear me over all the grudgeful breathing in the room.

"Just try and tell us what..." The female detective pries one last time as her voice and all other voices in the room fade from my facility. Question of the day: What happened? The question I would ask isn't what, its how.

#

When I was born my father and mother had just been arguing. Clothes tossed and heaved around our small, moist lawn. My mother was screaming ungodly names at my father, who was stuttering around picking up items of cloth one by one for the twelfth time that week.

"Yes dear. You're right dear." He presumed everything she may have wanted to hear. My mother hadn't been the most stable parent nor person. Having a child especially in her twenties hadn't been in her prearranged life plans. My father a tall, proud, Irish man never minded the thought of a baby. I'd like to think if he had lived past my sixteenth birthday maybe things would've gone differently. I believe my once timid friend Syrous came from images of my dad to keep me saner than my mother. I was eight when Syrous came to play for the very first time. He tapped gently on my window,

"Lily..Lil?" he spoke softly. I ran curiously to the window to find the strange little boy standing asking to be let in. What six-year-old would want to play with an eight-year-old girl instead of some other boy? Maybe he hadn't heard of cooties yet.