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"I'VE SEEN THE VIDEO FOOTAGE, I ALREADY KNOW WHAT HAPPENED," Detective Pierce shouted with frustration, slamming his hands onto the table. He could tell the boy, if it were really a boy at all, was growing fearful. The teary look in his eye made him look much younger than his physical features did, but Pierce wasn't falling for it.
"I told you, I don't remember anything," Michael clasped his hands together tightly until they whitened, avoiding his glare. Pierce ran his tongue over his teeth and stood up harshly enough to rattle his chair.
He already had a theory in mind. Ever since Cordelia Goode exposed the world of witches and warlocks, he had been wary of them. It was almost as if the Detective had been waiting for one of them to slip up and use their powers for evil. After all, he believed no single individual should have been allowed to harness such power and abilities.
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" He couldn't help but grip the back of the boy's neck tightly, "do you think I'm falling for this whole innocent charade?"
It was reaching the eighth hour of their interrogation, and something had snapped within Pierce long ago. Unable to help himself, he flung the boy's head down by using his grip, smacking his forehead on the metal table.
It was an action he had never done before in his life, but Pierce realised that many things he did and said that day were out of character for him. Something within this boy's presence flared an anger within him he didn't know he had.
"Does that jog your memory?" He asked sarcastically, letting go of his neck and searching for an inner remorse as he watched his interviewee break down into tears.
Michael hated himself for appearing weak, believing himself to be one of the most, if not the most, powerful beings alive. But eight hours of a never-ending spew of insults and accusations had him breaking. The disgust with which the detective regarded him with cut him deep, and he was forced to look at his actions from a new perspective.
His murderous tendencies had brought him trouble countless times. And he could always blame those who abandoned him before for leaving him 'without cause', but there was only so much denial he could put up with before accepting that he was the problem.
His grandmother left him because he was evil.
Molly left him because he was a murderer.
The strong urge of denial still had yet to falter, this time urged onward by the fear of what would happen if he did admit to killing the clerk.
"I didn't do anything," he pleaded, wrapping his arms around his own body in defence.
"Except break his neck?" Pierce concluded, his tone full of assurance and cockiness. "You were the only one there, you sick little fuck."
