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Pen Your Pride


You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be misquoted then used against you.



  Silence echoes off the barren utilitarian room. The four blank walls are painted the same uniform grey as the floor and ceiling. The only break in the sea of nothingness is the black tinted mirror of the one-way glass.

      This room was not designed for warmth or comfort but for confessions and answers. Even the inanimate objects of the room sit in judgement to all who have been and all who will enter within.

   And within the centre of all this condemnation sits a girl.

   Folded over, she lays slumped over the cold metal table, so dejected she cannot even be bothered cradling her head.  Short russet coloured ringlets spill onto the table and pool around her head like blood. A white woollen blanket, once draped around her skeletal shoulders by some kind, anonymous soul, has fallen neglected to the floor, revealing the crusted blood and bandages below.

   The stillness of the air is broken by the creaking of the door and the heavy clomping footsteps of the two plain clothes officers who walk in. She remains oblivious.

   The metal chairs grate as they are dragged across the scarred linoleum. Reaching across the desk, one of the men checks the recording device before, with a faint click, switching it on.

   “Suspect interview with Amaryllis Mair commencing at 2:07 am, October twenty-third, two thousand and nineteen.  Senior Detective Michael Darling and Detective Jonathan Reyes present. Suspect has not requested legal representation,” Detective Darling began to recite, “I can see from our records here, this is not the first time you have been interviewed, Miss Amaryllis, so you must know the drill by now.”

    “Amy,” the despondent voice mumbles.

    “I’m sorry, but for the sake of the recorder you must speak clearly,” Detective Darling states.

 At last, pushing herself up while pulling her hair from her face, the officers get their first real look at the girl and repress a gasp. Despite her face’s shallow appearance, she might once have been considered pretty and might be again, if she were given access to a decent plastic surgeon.

    A long winding cut snakes its way from above her ear, along her high cheekbone then down, ending just above her full lips. Other cuts and scrapes are evident on her neck and arms, but despite the crimson spotted gauze, it is the trail of knotted black stitches that holds their attention.

    “Sixty-four,” she answers in a dead voice.

    “Sixty-four what?” Detective Reyes questions.

    “It took sixty-four stitches to close the cut. You know, the one you can’t stop staring at. I have a total of one hundred and thirty-four stitches, a new record I will admit. But that is not why I am here, is it, Dick-tective?” She raises her arm at the last part, displaying her gauze-covered bony shoulder and arm.

    With a cough and a shuffle of papers, Senior Detective Darling asks, “You are here in as a material witness to the murder of one Jackson Pollock. You were acquainted with the victim?”

    “Immanuel Jacobs,” she responds, sinking back into the chair with a sigh.

   “His driver’s license said Jackson Pollock and he was identified as such by his brother,” Detective Reyes flicks through the papers to confirm his information, “Devlin Pollock.”

    “I know that was his real name, but we all called him Jacobs.” A faint, sad smile flutters across her lips, pulling the wound tight.

    “Jackson/Jacobs; we have had conflicting reports about his activities and we were hoping you might be able to clear some of them up for us. For instance, what was he doing in the warehouse?”

   “We were there because we were betrayed.” Anger rings in her words.

   “What do you know about one Jackson Pollock A.K.A Immanuel Jacobs? Amy, who was he?” Darling’s deep, gravelled voice turns soothing in hope of a more helpful response.

   “Who was he?” Her shoulders began to shake, whether from laughter or hysterics it was impossible to tell as no sound emerged. “Who was he? Now that is the question. I will tell you my tale, as only I know it, and when I am done, I want you to answer me that question.

   “On the night I first met Immanuel Jacobs, it was raining frogs in more ways than one.”

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