trapdoor
2015 @chrseoha
There's no time to plan prior when you’ve got nothing but a handful of breaths to work with. Between breaking away from the dissolved scene of a teen party and being caught red-handed, ten at best, fifteen at most, and they’d gotten him in seven, body hitting pavement by the sheer brute of their hands.
The skin on his knees is still tender from the impact, red through torn denim and unattended to. His head spins with the same questions asked at intervals, a dingy carousel from hell of what’s been done’s, who else’s, and why’s with no new answers and the one damned, neck-strangling lie. The only allowed interruption is when he asks for more water.
It’s no better nor worse than the movies—a measly crumb for comfort, if any. But beggars can’t be choosers. At some nth hour, he’s lead out of the interrogation room, head ducked and retinas burning. All he’s got is half a brain left to remember to check his phone for any calls from Grandpa, and not to scan the station for any familiar faces or prying eyes.