Short Story: At The Soundless Dawn
This short story has been entered in theSprout Short Story Competition.
I had been in the interrogation room for a good hour now, maybe two? Time was literally meaningless to me right now, I just wanted to get the f*** out of here and go home.
“Can I have a glass of water, officer?” I said in my practised sarcastic tone - that p***ed him off. I seem to have a peculiar talent for undermining authority, one of my desirable traits I’d say.
“No you can't have any f***ing water” the riled police officer spat as he brought his fist down on the table inches away from my hand I barely acknowledged it and stared at the same spot I had been staring at previously, except of course when this slightly overweight police officer attempted to make eye contact, why you ask? I have no idea, intimidation perhaps? Clearly his attempts at intimidating me were failing and he knew that, that infuriated him even more. His partner then interjected, I knew they were playing their bullsh*t game of ‘Good cop, bad cop’, they knew I knew, and I knew that they knew that I knew.
“Look, we don’t want to be here all night, we’re all tired” said the second officer in his soothing voice that would lull anyone else but me into a false sense of security, it was obviously well rehearsed. I just remained silent.
After an unusually long time both officers looked up and in soundless agreement they walked out of the room. I imagined their silhouettes on the other side of the two way mirror, I imagined the ‘good cop’ talking at the ‘bad cop’ who would be staring at me through the glass. They were obviously preparing for act II of this charade. My mouth is dry. I decide to get up and walk towards the mirror, slowly, with an eerie sense of purpose, and I just stare, I stare as if I can see them through the mirror. I like to think I’m staring right into the eyes of bad cop. And I hope he’s staring back.
3 minutes and 7 seconds passes before they returned, the bad cop had a look on his face of pure disgust and contempt for me, despite not being able to prove what I did. ‘What I did’. No doubt that has surely piqued your interest, Dear Reader, and I’d like nothing more to divulge this information, but alas, I cannot I do apologise. “Look, we have witnesses...” No they didn’t.
“...we have your fingerprints..” I was wearing gloves.
“... pleading guilty would result in a lighter sentence, so just do it, kid.” Not in the mood.
Let’s take a look at my options, I could confess and I’m laughing silently at the thought of it, or I could simply remain silent, it has served me well thus far.
“Look, officers, I hope you don’t mind but I could really use my evening constitutional, so, if you’ll excuse me”
“What the f*** is a constitutional? Sit back down now”
“A constitutional, my dear fellow, is a walk to benefit one's health, now, since you have nothing more to say to me I’ll be on my way.”
They couldn’t stop me, and they knew it so I walked out of the room. Now, Dear Reader, I’d like to explain how I ended up in this room with these two fine gentlemen discussing my, albeit speculated, exploits; let me tell you a story.
It all began predictably, with an odd sort of home-life. I was born, predictably, and I grew up in a semi-detached house. I had parents who loved me and a sister who hated me, so I guess that evens out. I had friends. I didn’t particularly like any of them but they kept me entertained, I was the Alex DeLarge of our little group, I wouldn’t go as far as to call us a “gang”. That would be childish. So very childish. In school it’s fair to say we were feared. Don’t get me wrong, we weren’t bullies. We were simply agents of remorseless violence and intimidation.
Unsurprisingly our teachers were not too fond of us, every day the school bell would ring throughout the building its shrill call, like a distressed bird signalling the mobilisation of hordes of teenagers flocking, ducking and weaving through corridors, up staircases and into classrooms. Jostling and bumping into one another with a distinct puerile impatience. Like cattle, they are ushered into classrooms by jaded teachers. Teachers who’s enthusiasm for teaching was extinguished long ago, any passion choked and left to die. All that remains is a callous vessel, the shell of a glorified Commandant. Charming instruments of authoritarianism.
There was one teacher in particular, Mr Lessard. He was a short stump of a man with a habit of rolling his 'R's and whistling his 'S's. He was perfectly cheery. I hated that, you have no idea how much this man’s content for life and love of teaching infuriated me. Time and time again he would attempt to reform me, to encourage and nurture me.
I wanted to hurt this man, I wanted to break his spirit and leave him spineless and afraid of students for the rest of his life. On the 17th of November I would seek to accomplish this goal. He would be the canvas, and I the artist. At the soundless dawn, Lessard’s home will become my studio. It will house and witness what will transpire. This would be my masterpiece, a shining example of the cruelty of mankind. It will be beautiful.
IMAGE: scottog
1 Comment – Postiwch sylw
AfroChikk
Rhoddwyd sylw 70 mis yn ôl - 21st July 2010 - 10:27am
loved the ending of this strory, so descriptive and creative :)