I'm not a psycopath you have to believe me

0n3

Usually things start at the beginning. Books, I mean. No. Scratch that. Any story or tale in any form of media has a beginning. Even if you're talking about a story about how the universe has been in existence since the beginning of time, somebody started telling the story at some point.

Which is why it struck me. Or rather, why it confused me. That I was in a white room with a one way mirror and a door, handcuffed to a chair. Usually in a movie or book or again, any form of media, the story will start (providing it begins with a character in a police station) with them showing some sign of remorse, or the knowledge of what they did. Which, again, confused me.

I had no fucking clue why the hell I was there.

No recognition of the past three days, no knowledge of how I had gotten to be in a metal chair, handcuffed, and not even an idea of how I had been stupid enough to get myself caught. For the first few moments I thought I might have had something that Prince (aka the boy who would like to be known as prince aka my drug dealer who's name is apparently too embarrassing to be said out loud) had given me something besides my usual. Or maybe I OD'd. Both were quickly taken out as options, as A) I always test before snorting, and B) I never do any more than two two-inch lines.

No, like seriously. I'm too smart for that.

So that left me with the possibility of maybe I had been sleeping? That the police came in the middle of the night? Of course that can't be an option, I haven't slept in two days. Caffeine patches to thank for that. Of course there are probably hundreds of other possibilities, but I'm too tired and confused and caffeine crashed to come up with them and make a list.

So I just sit in the police chair, sitting in absolute and total ignorance as to my reason for doing so. I hate not knowing things. Almost as much as I hate it when people say something stupid. Those two things are in my mind probably the most annoying this in the world.

A police officer comes into the room, holding the papers in his hands as tightly as he would have kept a grasp on the last few hairs on his head before he had descended into the life of the completely bald. He proceeds to sit down on the table, and I do my best to restrain my smirk as he struggles to fit into the fixed-in-place chair. Yes, I know. I'm rude and obnoxious. Sue me.

He opens the file to documents that I can't quite make out, probably something legal. Probably something stupid.

"Ok. Naomi Hayward, charged with," he pauses, looking more intently at the page, "Wow. A lot." I furrow my eyebrows and lean back in my chair. "Have you been told your rights?" He asks me, and I sit up.

"No." He jots down.

"Alright, well in that case, you have the r-"

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, blah blah blah. Yeah, I got it." The cop looks at me dumbfounded, not saying anything. "This is my first time being arrested, just to clarify." He looks back down at his papers, then back at me. "And can you call me Twelve. The state won't let me change it legally. The box is right-" I try to point to it, almost forgetting the handcuffs. "There." He doesn't reply. His look reads surprised, but to be honest I'm still trying to figure out facial expressions. Stupid things that people use instead of saying what they're thinking. I roll my eyes again, now getting annoyed. "It shouldn't be that surprising that a 16 year old girl knows the Miranda warning, in fact you should be surprised by the fact that it's not taught in our shitty and quite frankly useless school system. And the name Naomi means pleasantness, which is why I changed it, as pleasantness is not something that I particularly associate with. 12, on the other hand, is perfectly reasonable, and if the world were better everybody would just have a number instead of these irrefutably illogical names that people give their children which they will eventually grow to hate. Now either speak or get me someone with an iq over at least 110. Please and thank you." I lean back into my chair. Cops. The people who should have the highest iqs always seem to have the lowest.

He looks at me even more shocked. "I'll go get my manager"

"Finally"

A while passes until somebody comes back in. I'm expecting another cop, some big guy who had a few too many donuts for breakfast for the past decade or so. Instead, I'm surprised by the two suited men who come into my room, looking like they're straight out of a Men in Black movie, decked out in the Matrix sunglasses and everything. Seeing that there is only one chair handy, the second one stood by the door, formally crossing out about six of the escape plans that I have thought up in my head while waiting. Their combined mass would probably be ten times mine. No, that's not right. Stop exaggerating.

The one who isn't by the door sits down in the chair, opening his manilla file and rotating it so I can see.

"Miss Hayward?" He questions. I look around the room as if searching for another person who's name is Miss Hayward that isn't there.

"That would be me." I say sarcastically, and he doesn't react, just scribbles down notes on his pad.

"I hear you've been told your Miranda rights"

"You mean the guy trying to tell me my Miranda rights had them explained to him." He writes something else down.

"Hm." He squirrels his face, looking intently at my file.

"What." I ask, not really sure whether he's trying to get a reaction out of me to see what I do when I don't know something, or is he's genuinely confused.

"Miss Hayward do you have any idea what you've been charged with?"

That's the thing though. I genuinely have no idea. I wish I did. But I don't. I really don't.

I can't tell him that, because whatever is happening is bigger than I'm realizing. You don't get arrested and meet guys who look like duplications of Smith from the matrix, you get arrested by guys who are dealing with their midlife crisis by consuming food as frequently as possible. Telling him would be giving him the upper hand by having more information. But I can't just say yes either...

"I know exactly what I did, I don't know what you idiots have tried to call it." He smirks. Ok, maybe that wasn't the best plan. No. That was stupid. I mentally slap myself.

"You've been charged with arson, possession of illegal substances, destruction of", he squints, " a lot of private property, arson, causing grievous bodily harm, and," he squints again, "attempting to aggravate Bigfoot and the Sasquatch". I open my mouth and close it again. Wtf. "Because apparently that's illegal in Washington." He turns the page. "Oh. And hacking the pentagon. Which is where we come in."

Oh twelve. What have you done this time.