Guarding Dior

Chapter 2

Before the swarm of cops could surround them, Dior decided to go inside and wait for any news about Charles. She had never seen that much blood in her 25 years, and the image haunted her as she found an empty row in the back of the waiting room. It was 5 p.m. on a Tuesday, and the room was sparsely populated. Dior quickly recounted what she had seen to Levi, who listened with a worried expression.

"I'm really glad he didn't come back. You don't think he was watching from afar, do you?" Levi asked, his voice tinged with fear.

The thought hadn't crossed Dior's mind, but now it put her on alert. What if he followed us here? Would she be able to recognize him? A group of officers entered the emergency room, questioning nurses while Levi and Dior sat nervously. Eventually, a few nurses pointed in their direction. The cops approached, noting the blood on their clothes.

"You two brought in the police officer?" one of the officers asked.

They both nodded silently, the shock starting to set in. The officers glanced around as a crowd of people from the protests rushed in.

"We're gonna need to bring you in for your statements and..." The officer looked out the sliding doors at the cop car still on the front sidewalk, now surrounded by cops and taped off. "We also need to figure out some other logistics."

Oops, guess they didn't like my parking job, Dior thought. She looked at Levi, and they both stood up to follow the officers. They were put into separate vehicles, which made Dior uneasy. She really didn't like cops, and now the only person she knew was gone. A shiver ran down her spine as the cop looked at her through the rearview mirror, but she decided to stay quiet. She kept wondering why the bald gunman had shot the car's console and taken Charles' radio to shatter. It seemed calculated, part of a larger plan. She recalled the details: the man looked to be in his 40s and wore a black sweatshirt and pants, odd in 77-degree weather but not entirely implausible.

At the station, they were led into separate interrogation rooms. Dior could feel people's eyes on her blood-stained body, and she wished she had washed up before but there hadn't been time. The cold air from the A/C made her shiver. Two women entered with what looked like tool kits, explaining that they needed samples of the blood on her and that they would need to take her clothes as well. They provided a sweatshirt and sweatpants for her to change into. They rubbed a lot of special Q tips on her bloody face, hands and legs, and then they held out the bags for her clothes.

"You can change in the bathroom, of course," one of the women said, noticing Dior's nervous glance at the one-way mirror. Relief washed over Dior as she took the bags and was led to the bathroom. Inside, she looked in the mirror and immediately started to tear up. She looked pale, and her freckles were barely visible under the smears of blood. Her brown hair was barely holding together in the braid she had put it in that morning, and she felt like she was barely holding it together too.

She scrubbed her hands vigorously to get the blood off, using half the bottle of soap on the sink. By the time she reached her face, she was exhausted. She carefully removed her clothes, placing each item in the evidence bags, including her sneakers. She was glad for the warm sweatshirt, though she wasn't thrilled about the police logo on it. She looked in the mirror one last time as she gathered the courage to leave the bathroom, but tears started falling faster than she could stop them.

Sliding down to the floor, she leaned against the wall and began to sob into her scraped knees as quietly as possible, not wanting to worry anyone passing by. She cried until she could no longer feel the wetness of her tears, losing track of time while staring at the white tiles on the wall. The enormity of the day's events weighed heavily on her, and she wondered how she would ever find the strength to face what was coming next.