The handcuffs press into my wrists, the cold metal threatening to slice my skin, and I shift in the small plastic seat, huffing out a breath. I feel trapped, alone with my thoughts and the accusations and the murders whirling through my mind at dangerous speed. Being in a tiny questioning room with blank walls, a one way glass panel, and a small camera in the top corner of the room didn't make me feel much better. I shift in my seat again, trying to find some goddamn way to actually make these handcuffs comfortable, and the door leading into the questioning room opens. A small, petite woman with sharp, dark eyes and a porcelain complexion steps through the doorframe, a pile of papers in her hand. Her pale blond hair is swept up away from her face, accenting her tiny features. She wears a tight black suit, and as she sits down in the chair across from me I can hear the material move against her skin. She gives me a pointed look, pursing her lips and shuffling her papers into order without breaking eye contact.
"Liam." she says by way of greeting. I don't say anything, just keep my lips in a tight line and tip back in my chair. It amuses me how she knows all about me; my backstory, my mistakes. My crimes. And I don't even know her name.
"I'm going to be asking you a few questions, and I hope you will cooperate so this can be over soon." the woman says. Her lips curl up a little on the side, like she's getting entertainment out of this. She places one of the papers down on the table, spinning it around with her small, pudgy fingers so I can see it. I realize it's a picture, and then I notice that in the picture, a child hangs by their fingers to a swing set, their arms bloodied and limp beside their torn up body. And in place of their head is nothing, just a torn off stump of a neck, bloody and raw like the rest of her skin. I force myself not to flinch away from the picture, just hold my jaw steady and flick my eyes up to look at the woman.
"Why are you showing me this?" I ask. She ignores my question, placing a picture similar to the first in front of me, and then another, and another. When she's finished, there's seven pictures of children's bodies sitting in front of me, mocking me.
"These children," she explains, folding her hands over the rest of her papers, "are the victims of your murders. The police don't understand why you would do such a thing, and that's why I'm here." She gestures to the first little girl, then twists her hands together again. "Hannah Cooperton, six years old, found dead, decapitated, and nailed by her fingers to her favorite swing set. How'd you know her, Liam?"
"I didn't."
"So you chose a random little girl to murder? Makes sense. Until we move on to your next victim, Hannah's best friend Sarah Fullerton. Also age six, also found hanging decapitated from a swing set. What's going on in that head of yours Liam? Your little sister was found dead the same way." When she mentions my little sister, I flinch, tipping my chair back farther to make it seem as if I merely just shifted my weight a bit. If this was considered "therapy", it was a sick way to do it. The woman's lips curl up at the corners, then fall flat again.
"You've been in here for at least a year Liam. Don't you want to get out sooner? I can help you if you talk to me." For once, she looks sincere, her eyes pleading. I can't help but laugh a little, my mouth twisting into a smug grin.
"You can't get me out." I say simply. I let my chair fall back into place, and the woman grimaces as it clangs against the tile floor. Madness. This is madness. A year I've been locked in this disgusting jail, and they haven't given up on my case. The woman clears her throat, tucking a strand of hair that's fallen out of her tight ponytail behind her ear.
"I could, if you helped me." she says, opening her hands as if to say That's it. The deal's on the table. I scoot myself forward in the metal chair and tilt my head so we're face to face, a few inches apart, the baggy orange shirt hanging off of me scattering the papers across the table.
