The Boy In The Window

"Dylan has been missing for a year now, and someone has him out there. Your brother is now only twelve. Maddie, I know this isn't the easiest process, especially because of your relation to him, but I have to ask. Is there anything crucial that happened that night that I don't know about?" I glanced away from his kindly serious eyes that studied every slight expression and looked up at the flickering lights of the investigation room. The chilled, metal chair heavily contrasted with my skin that continued to heat from the repetitive questioning. As the tears began trickling down and my cheeks started to sting, I harshly pinched my hand, out of view, to distract myself. Every time, after this question, the air gets thicker and thicker, until it gets to the point where I can't breathe. The room was so frigid, yet also blisteringly hot. All my attention, I focused on though, was the fact I am determined I couldn't break down again. I've cried in every interview since the first. The idea of Dylan being alone, crying, or even dead.. scares me. When I hear those statements in that freezing, dark room the memory of my brother who was stolen in the night, pierces my sanity. It feels like a pop quiz I never got the chance to study for. I hate quizzes. It doesn't matter, what does though is that terrifying image of what fate he could have or had that welds into my mind like marking ownership on a cow. I am not a cow and I deserve to have peace, but I don't. I'm stuck in this everlasting loop hearing these questions over and over and over an- "Maddie? Did you hear me? Is there anything critical that you have not told me?" I look into my blurred and lopsided reflection on the poorly made silver table. When I look up, I stare directly into the standing lamp faced towards me as the police interrogator fixes his eyes on mine. My voice breaks the disturbingly long silence and croaks my answer. "No, I've told you everything I know." I lied.