My Original Works

Angst

His hands trembled with a mix of terror and delight; he wasn't in control of anything anymore and he was filled with anticipation of what he would do. He watched with bated breath as they approached him in his room, the interrogation room, and ran through every response three times. What would they ask? He was prepared for anything.

Why did you do it? Where were you? Do you know them? He had thought of them all. Each question that may be relevant to the case was answered several hours ago, the hours he had been left in the room to rot alone with his fast-paced heart and sweaty palms, fingernails unkempt and clawing at his face as he tried to escape his own skin--

He was afraid that he would be labeled a criminal! Why was he here again? What had happened? His leg bounced nervously on the cool tile of the floor as he stared at the one-way glass, throat dry and jaw quivering in fear. What happened? What happened?

His fists clenched on their own. The muscles in his arms tensed the longer he waited in curiosity. You could hear his teeth scraping against one another, his jaw clenched and tense. His eyes were glaring, a piercing gaze, and he felt nothing of what was to come. He was angry, yes, but there was nothing else.

His gaze darted back and forth between the door and the mirror in hopes of getting someone, anyone, to pay attention and come into the room and sort things out. He wouldn't go against the law! He's not a bad person!

He enjoyed every second of it. The feeling of their bones snapping in his hands, the sharp intakes of breath, the blood-curdling screams that shook the small home in the dead of night. It was the most he had felt in a while, the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins and the power surging through him. Other than that, all he felt was numb.

He wasn't a murderer!

He was a murderer.

He wouldn't harm a fly!

He would hurt the families.

What is wrong with him?