The streets were erratically cruel. By day citizens swarmed the boutiques with slogans stenciled to the glass fronts. The homeless still wandered the street, often in noisy exchanges with themselves or others down and out. In the coolness of the daylight, they were regarded as of no importance than the cracked sidewalk or the chipped lampposts. By night mothers didn't come with their minivans, instead, the streets belonged to the pimps, the drug dealers, and any other crime mobs out there. Even the cops stayed away unless there was a complaint from a tax-payer, and even then they came slowly.
Her business suit was crisp and made from a shade of bleak grey. Above her white collar line were a series of pearls and thinly-rimmed glasses placed on her hooked nose. The woman tried to remain stoic to the rowdy sounds of the inner city. However, she couldn't ignore the gunshots heard from the far distance.
Quickly, the woman hauled herself to the front door. She cringes. This was a police station? A wretched little building in the middle of a crime-riddled town? Taking out a handkerchief from the inner pocket of her coat, the female lawyer uses the napkin to rest her hand on the crude door and pushes it open. The door's hinges squeak as though it was a warning, but their plea is silenced by a wall of noise.
As she walked inside, the lawyer found several officers at their desks, some of them taking police complaints from citizens or holding them under arrest and taking several phone calls, mostly pertaining to a specific inmate. At one of the officer's stations, she finally comes across the deputy sheriff.
"Officer Conwald?" she bluntly asks.
"Yeah...?" the man raises a brow.
"I'm Dolores Anderson," the woman answers.
"Oh yeah--"
"I'm here to see Miss (Y/N) (L/N)," the woman cuts him off.
Officer Conwald sighs, "Alright--"
"I would like to speak with her privately," Dolores adds.
The officer rolls his eyes as he gets up from his desk, "I'll get you two a private room."
- - - - - -
From the other side of the interrogation room, Dolores could see her client, though (Y/N) couldn't see her. The young woman was slouched in an uncomfortable chair. She was dressed in an orange garment incorporating trousers and a white tank top, stripped from her fake security guard uniform. Her once glossy (h/c) locks were pulled back into a messy bun, loose strands of her hair practically clinging to her beautiful face. Her feet, though wearing socks, were freezing as they grazed the cold, grey floor as she gently swung her legs. What was more noticeable to Dolores was the straightjacket -- the strong white garment with long sleeves tied together, and brown straps with buckles on the back. It confined the girl's arms, pinning them tightly to her sides.
"Why is my client in a straightjacket?" Dolores furrowed her brows.
"She almost got out of her cell three times," the deputy sheriff answers, "She's a slippery lady, that one."
"Right," Dolores nods, "Again, I need to speak with her... Alone."
The officer sighs, "Fine." Conwald roughly pats Dolores's shoulder, causing the blonde woman to jump at the sudden contact. "I'll leave you to it." Without stopping in his tracks or even turning back around to face Dolores, he jests, "Just scream if you're about to be killed!"
YOU ARE READING
Fangs of Fame
Horror(Y/N) didn't mean to get herself caught by the police, nor did she want her mugshot to get blasted all over the internet. But with social media being as it was, (Y/N) is suddenly thrown into the spotlight when she takes the title of being known as "...
