The Truth

Prologue

It's OK. Stay calm. Don't let them get to you. Don't let them in.

These are the things racing through my mind as I walk down the dark, damp, drafty, corridor with a bulky guard attached to each arm. The one on my left is blonde-haired, hazel-eyed, very muscly and smells strongly of sweat. The one on my right is slightly less muscular, brown-haired, brown-eyed and I'm pretty sure he either stayed the night at his girlfriend's last night or he's gay because he smells of something feminine and flowery. They both move at a swift pace and look straight ahead, absolutely no emotion on their faces. It's almost like they don't care that they might potentially be leading a dangerous criminal down a dingy corridor at gone midnight. Then again, they probably do it all the time.

"Go in, sit down. Don't try to escape. We will stop you. Understand?" The sweaty guard, his free hand hovering near his gun, as we arrive outside the room. I nod to let him know that I do, even though I don't. I don't understand why they have me pinned down as a flight risk, but that's their problem, not mine. The flowery guard lets go of my arm cautiously for just a few seconds to swiftly unlock and open the door, and then grabs my arm a little too harshly. I flinch and he opens his mouth as if to say sorry, but seems to think better of it and leads me in. Once inside, he locks the door again and they both drop my arms hastily. I rub my bare arms defensively and turn to take a seat. The room isn't much, just bare white walls, a table with two chairs including the one I'm on, the door I came through, a metal door opposite and a large mirror I'm pretty sure is a one-way window.

Why am I here? It feels like I'm already convicted. I thought I was 'innocent until proven guilty'. I suppose that went to hell.

I sit in absolute silence, waiting, counting my breaths to pass the time. After a while the metal door swings open and the guy who comes through it isn't at all what I had expected. He's a weedy man in his 50's with a receding grey hairline and a bushy moustache. He wears a light brown suit, a belt containing a baton and some pepper spray, and a red bowtie. He is so much the typical inspector it's almost laughable, but he's not one I'd have pinned down as an interrogator. 

"Right," He says loudly after shutting the door behind him, the sudden sound making me jump. His voice is very posh and refined. "I'm Officer Smith. You are... Ebony Colgan, am I correct?"

"Of course I'm Ebony Colgan," I spit, "Who else would I be?"

"It's just protocol, miss," He says patiently, "I'm required to ask by law."

"Oh." Is all I can say. 

He takes the seat opposite me and places his hands together on the desk, leaning forward a little. "Now," He begins, provoking an exasperated sigh from my part. "Are you going to make this easy and just tell me, or do I have to work for it?"

"What do you think?" I retort. I'm not in the mood for this.

"Of course," He sighs, "Well, whenever you're ready." He leans back.

"What?"

"Whenever you're ready. I won't press you. Just speak when you want to. I have all the time in the world."

"Fine," I snap, "I hope you do."

We sit in silence for a long while, and Smith keeps that irritating look of patience on his face the whole time. But after only 5 minutes of silence, I start to get lost in my thoughts. Maybe I should tell him. He seems like the type who would give his full attention and absorb everything I say. And besides, maybe sharing everything could actually help me in the long-run. But I'm not gonna give it to him that easily.

"Some stories were meant to be told," I whisper suddenly, but after the silence it sounds like I'm shouting it. Smith resumes his previous position, his 'I'm interested' position. "Others were meant to be forgotten."

"And yours?" He presses gently, but I can see the struggle in his face to meet my piercing green eyes. I stare relentlessly back into his deep brown ones, causing his stare to waver a little. "What was yours meant to be?"

I think carefully before saying, "Remembered."

"What do you mean?"

"Not a story told eagerly over campfires, or as a bedtime story, or used to start a rowdy conversation. But also not one that's forgotten, that dies out. One that everyone knows, that everyone learns, only spoken about to teach others of it, or to have a respectful discussion. It deserves that much, and so does everyone that's a part of it." 

"If you want that to happen you have to tell me."

He waits for an answer, but I say nothing.

"How can you expect your story to be remembered if you just sit there?" He asks, an edge in his voice that wasn't there before.

Still, I say nothing.

"Tell me!" He bursts, but quickly composes himself and continues, still with a tone of annoyance, "Tell me, or we'll just work off the evidence we've got. And that's not good for you, I can say. We know-"

"YOU KNOW NOTHING!" I yell, standing up and slamming my hands on the desk. Smith looks dazed. At least that wiped the smug look off his face. "You know nothing." I repeat, a lot quieter now, my voice catching on my words.

No, I mustn't cry. I won't cry. 

"Then please," He says, "Enlighten me."

I gaze at him, but really I'm not seeing. I weigh up the odds. Tell him everything, and I mean absolutely everything, and have the chance of walking free and being left alone, or stay silent, be convicted and probably end up as a pile of dust. The latter doesn't sound too appealing, so I choose the first option. And I find that when I open my mouth and begin to speak, the words just keep coming.