Democracy

station

The car was immediately driven off to the police station where I was led to what was meant to be an interrogation room but was more like a break room with plastic school seats and a mirror. In total, I am left alone in there for two minutes. I spend that period of time, relaxed in the back of the chair with a fixed smile on my face.
The first person to come into the room is a detective. In his hand is a set of papers which he sets down on the table in front of him before sitting opposite me.
"What's your name?" His voice is like gravel, it grates against my ears like a nail against a chalkboard. He scratches at his unkempt beard once; under the hair, I can make out a little cut.
"Luke," I state. I raise my hand as much as I can being chained to the table. "That scar there, how'd you get it?"
The detective gives me a calculating look, scratches his beard, then lies. "Shaving. What's your last name, Luke?"
I laugh a little.
"If that was from shaving you wouldn't feel the need to cover it with a beard, which obviously is what you're trying to do. I don't have a last name. Is it a battle scar?"
Once again the detective gives me a calculating look, notes something down on the sheets in front of him, and then scratches his beard.
"How old are you, just Luke?"
"I hate your voice." I tell him. "I'm 16." He nods and jots something again on the pages.
"Where do you live Luke?" He asks. He's still thinking about the scar under his beard- he hasn't stopped rubbing at it the last fifteen seconds. He's trying to distance himself from the subject.
"You all saw me kill your policemen and I expect you've found the bodies at that crappy little corner shop. And obviously, there were those four bodies the other day and two tonight. How long are you planning on locking me up for those ten bodies?" I barely register the look of surprise that glitters across his face before he rises to his feet, collecting the papers. His hand is shaking and some of the pages fall onto the floor. "Aww," I coo, taunting him. "Were they your friends?" The paper rustles as his fist tightens around it, his knuckles are white. "Have I upset you?" I ask, sticking my bottom lip out to make fun of him. He stops where he is and looks up, meeting my eyes.  I use the opportunity to glimpse into his mind- a trick I barely ever use, finding human's thoughts unoriginal at best. "Officer Dirsley, he was your best pal," I emphasise the word pal using it as another opportunity to poke fun at him, "right?" Anger lights up his face and he launches himself at me, punching me twice in the face. He punches me once more, his wedding ring cutting my cheek, pissing me off more. He steps back, smiling at his work in fucking up a bit of my face. I chuckle a little and meet his eyes. His face crumbles and he steps backward slowly, cautiously. When the door is busy open seconds later, he is muttering to himself some prayer or another and shaking in the corner. I am pulled up out of my seat and led to a holding cell. I smile at everybody I see along the way. It sickens most of them, their faces twitching with horror and confusion.
The cell I am dumped in is tiny and cold. I take my seat in the back of the cage and wait, never once looking away from the unnerved guard who was made to watch me.
Night comes and goes and in the morning, I am brought out of the cell, back into the interview room I was put in last night. This time a man dressed very smartly in a very expensive suit is waiting for me. He has a gun holster under his blazer and in it a black gun.
"Luke Pine, a name that was very difficult to get. Do you want to explain to us why the school seemed so wary in giving us your information?" The man greets, giving no indication of his own identity. I assume he isn't police; they aren't equipped to deal with people like me or at least what they think I am- a serial killer, that is.
"I'd think they'd be a little more than wary after the demonstration in assembly the other day. Eight bodies should have definitely done a little more than wary, don't you think?" I ask him, casually. A fly.is buzzing around behind my head.
"You're going to prison for a long time, Luke." The man tells me. "Why don't you tell me who you're working for?" I make a face at him; did he just assume I'm working under somebody? That asshole is going to have to pay.
"What's your name?" I ask him. "Tell me that and then I'll answer your question." His eyebrow twitches with annoyance.
"Harold Wilton," he tells me. I burst into laughter, having delved into his head to find the thing that will most annoy him- his brother.
I keep laughing. "Wiltin?" I roar. "You're telling me that your brother is the lunatic fanatic who is featured on the news so much?" I slam my hands against the table as much as I can with the handcuffs. "Your brother is an idiot. Nobody is going to heaven or hell. You're all just going to rot. He should stop praying for his death and start doing something with his life." Laughter riddles my words, until I decide to fall silent, arubtly. It visibly unnerves Harold.
"Look Harold," I say, calmly. "I think you're a nice lad but this is your own damn fault for coming here." I tell him.
He looks at me, annoyed and confused.
"Are you threatening me?" He eventually asks, raising an eyebrow. He pauses. Then it's his turn to laugh. "You do know that your stuck in hand cuffs, right?" He clasps his hands atop the table. "What are you going to do?"
I look down at his watch. It reads ten in the morning. I return to keeping eye contact with him. There's a heavy knock at the door. Harold gets up, laughing at me once, and opens the door, finding a barrel of a gun in his face.
I stand up, snapping the handcuffs. The door swings open to reveal Dorian. I smile and nod at him, before setting off out the door.
*Only one more chapter like this then we're back to the main story. Please comment for me to improve*