“I don’t know. I’ve lost track of time, and you will too, because it won’t matter. People don’t leave. My advice to you is to accept your new reality. Take what little good you can. The chocolate pudding is good. The mush they give us at breakfast is disgusting. Don’t bother trying it. Once a month, we get pizza. It’s terrible, but you’ll look forward to it, because it’s as good as it gets in here. Do as they say, or you’ll end up in the basement with Dr. Halstead. Avoid that at all costs. People that go down there are never the same. Trust me, you don’t want any part of it.”
I know she said people don’t leave, but I will. I’m not crazy, and I’m not staying here. This is temporary. It has to be. If I stop believing I’ll ever leave, I have nothing left. Not even a glimmer of hope. Without hope, I’ll die. I’ve been through worse with my husband. I can and will get through this.
I feel a gaze on me, hot as the sun. Turning toward the door, I spot a man staring at me through the small square window. His eyes, nearly as dark as the night sky, stay on me as if he knowsme. His lips lift into a smile, but it’s not friendly. It feels like a warning. One I don’t understand.
“What’s your name?” the girl from next door asks, snapping my attention from the door back to her.
“Bianca, what’s yours?”
“Heather,” she responds, before asking, “Why are you here?”
I laugh, but there’s no humor behind it. Glancing back to the window, I notice the man that was staring at me is gone, as I respond to her.
“They say I murdered my husband, but I didn’t. I’m an idiot, not a criminal. I only said I did it because I was tired,” I explain. “My lawyer said they wear you down intentionally, and that I should have exercised my right to remain silent.”
The memories of that night assault me with no warning.
The two detectives, Patrick and Callahan, I think they said their names were, circle me like wolves surrounding their prey. Patrick, the one with the thick Irish accent, stops in front of the metal table they have me handcuffed to, lowering his head, his gaze angry and intolerant.
“We know you did it. You have two black eyes. Is that why? If you admit it, we can help you. Hell, you’ll probably walk free if he’s responsible for this.”
I sit in the uncomfortable small metal chair, eyes wide, as my heart pounds in my chest. I didn’t set my house on fire with Sullivan inside. Even if he deserved it, I’d never do something like that. I’m not a killer, or an arsonist.
“I didn’t do it,” I repeat, for what must be the hundredth time since they arrested me.
“Did he hit you?”
A tear rolls down my cheek as I admit the truth.
“Yes, he hits me every day. My husband beats me. He’s a monster, but I did not kill him.”
I watch as the darkness becomes light, and spend the day locked to this table, while detective after detective attempts to break me. I stare at the window, searching for hints of how long I’ve been here. After noticing darkness and light enough times, I know I’ve been here a few days, and there seems to be no end in sight. Callahan pulls up a metal chair to the other side of the table. The high pitched scratching against the floor is much like nails on a chalkboard. I attempt to cover my ears, but I can’t, because my wrists are still cuffed.
“Would you like to go home?”
My house has probably burned to the ground, so I don’t have a home, but I’d rather be anywhere other than here, so I say, “Yes.”
“Tell me what I want to hear, and I’ll make it happen. You’re a victim. If you confess, we can talk to the district attorney, and get you out before the end of the day.”
Only a desperate person would confess to a crime they didn’t commit. That’s what I am, desperate. Even in death, Sullivan is torturing me. I swallow hard and say the words he wants to hear. Closing my eyes tight, I take a deep breath. The lie is bitter on my tongue, and my skin prickles, as an uncomfortable feeling washes over me.
“I did it. I set the fire with my husband inside.”
“Hello? Are you still there?” Heather asks, snapping me back to a harsh reality.
“I’m here. Sorry. Can I ask you a question?”
She giggles softly.
“I’m not going anywhere. I have all the time in the world. Shoot.”
Glancing back at the now vacant window, I say, “There was a man staring at me. It was intense, and then he disappeared.”
She laughs lightly.
“That was Raven. He’s so psychotic they are afraid to keep him locked up. He doesn’t like being confined, and he turns violent if they cage him in. I don’t know why they don’t just drug him. The rumor is, he’s here because he skinned people alive. He’s on the other side of your room, so he can probably hear us talking.”
“Jesus,” I say, because that’s insane, which probably makes him a good fit for an asylum.
