When I do, I’m surprised.
There’s a beautiful man in military uniform—I’m assuming he’s the commander—standing in front of a large, wooden desk, his arms crossed against his chest. He’s staring me straight in the eye, and I’m suddenly so overwhelmed I feel myself blush.
I’ve never seen anyone so handsome before.
I look down, embarrassed, and study the laces of my tennis shoes. I’m grateful for my long hair. It serves as a dark, heavy curtain, shielding my face from view.
“Look at me.”
The command is sharp and clear. I look up, nervously, to meet his eyes. He has thick, dark brown hair. Eyes like a storm. He looks at me for so long I feel goose bumps rise along my skin. He won’t look away, and I feel more terrified by the moment. This man’s eyes are full of anger. Darkness. There’s something genuinely frightening about him, and my heart begins to hammer.
“You’re growing up quickly,” he says.
I stare at him, confused, but he’s still studying my face.
“Fourteen years old,” he says quietly. “Such a complicated age for a young girl.” Finally, he sighs. Looks away. “It always breaksmy heart to break beautiful things.”
“I don’t— I don’t understand,” I say, feeling suddenly ill.
He looks up again. “You’re aware of what you did today?”
I freeze. Words pile up in my throat, die in my mouth.
“Yes or no?” he demands.
“Y-yes,” I say quickly. “Yes.”
“And do you know why you did it? Do you know how you did it?”
I shake my head, my eyes filling fast with tears. “It was an accident,” I whisper. “I didn’t know— I didn’t know that this—”
“Does anyone else know about your sickness?”
“No.” I stare at him, my eyes wide even as tears blur my vision. “I mean, n-not, not really—just my parents—but no one really understands what’s wrong with me. I don’t even understand—”
“You mean you didn’t plan this? It wasn’t your intention to murder the little boy?”
“No!” I cry out, and then clap both hands over my mouth. “No,” I say, quietly now. “I was trying to help him. He’d fallen to the floor and I— I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”
“Liar.”
I’m still shaking my head, wiping away tears with shaking hands. “It was an accident. I swear, I didn’t mean to—I d-didn’t—”
“Sir.” It’s Delalieu. His voice.
I didn’t realize he was still in the room.
I sniff, hard, wiping quickly at my face, but my hands are still shaking. I try, again, to swallow back the tears. To pull myself together.
“Sir,” Delalieu says more firmly, “perhaps we should conduct this interview elsewhere.”
“I don’t see why that’s necessary.”
“I don’t mean to seem impertinent, sir, but I really feel that you might be better served conducting this interview privately.”
I dare to turn, to look up at him. And that’s when I notice the third person in the room.
A boy.
