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.