I’ve Come to Take You Home

I sat in the interrogation room, looking at my shaking hands in front of me; I’d been waiting what seemed like hours for the detective to return.

Beads of sweat dripped from my brow like a leaky tap as I sat in shock; I’d finally done it, I’d finally confessed.

It didn’t sink in that I’d killed them until now.

Not when my ire overcame me and I gripped their throat.

Not when they spluttered and their eyes rolled back into the back of their head.

Not when their skin went cold.

Not when I dragged them from the trunk of the car and to the freshly dug hole in the middle of the forest.

But now, it was real, I was scared.

The detective burst back into the room and, startled, I sat up straight.

“You piece of shit, you wasted my time with that sick story of yours. Get the fuck out of here before I arrest you for wasting police time!” he shouted, spit landing on the table in front of me.

“What?” I said panicked, “I told you the truth! I told you where you can find them!”

“There was nothing there,” he blasted as there was a knock.

The detective got up and opened the door. In walked my mother and dread occupied my face.

“Hello son,” she said with a smile.

I looked at her neck, it was barely visible, but I could see red contusions.

“I’ve come to take you home.”

I stood up, shocked, she took my hand and squeezed.

“We have to have a talk,” she said, as a muddy earthy smell followed us out.

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