Don't Call Me Kid

�My occupation now, I suppose, is jail inmate.�- Theodore Kaczynski

I sit in the holding room, calm and collected. My outfit is orange, and it suits me well. A tired policeman walks in through the door and sits down in front of me. He is rather pleasant looking, and watches me with brown eyes too big for his head. On a normal basis, they would be kind, but he is speaking to a killer.

“There won’t be too much interrogation, since we already know you killed Miss Washington,” he states.

“Won’t you tell me your name?”

He looks at me as if I am a small child who had just said a swear word. “Not important,” he says gruffly.

“Not to you, but I’d like to know who is condemning me.” He probably thinks that if I ever get out of prison, I’ll come after him. He believes all killers are psychopaths.

“Why did you kill Danielle?”

He jumps right into the questioning like a good little policeman.

“Because she wanted me to,” I reply. I sound like a nutjob. Who would believe that? But it is the unfailing truth; they all want me to kill them.

The unnamed policeman sighs and leans back into the chair. He doesn’t feel like dealing with me. In retrospect, no one did. “Maybe you didn’t hear me right. We already know what you did. All we need is a motive.”

“So you think I’m going to back into a corner and confess to all my sins?” I say. “It doesn’t work like that, Mr. Policeman.”

His brown hair falls into his wrinkled face. “Yes, it does work like that.”

“Do you really want to argue with me?”

The man has a short fuse, I could tell. He is certainly not the best one for this job. “Kid, you’re one twisted f**k.”

“First of all, I’m not a kid,” I say, retaining my composure. “I’ve recently turned eighteen. Second of all, you don’t even know what ‘twisted’ is, and I’m a very poor example.”

“You murdered a helpless girl,” he says, his mouth only moving slightly.

“Who said she was helpless?” I retort.

He glares at me for a while. I stare at his mustache.

“Are you going to ask another question, or just glower like a two-year-old?” I say.

The policeman stands, oddly quiet, and leaves the tiny room. I want to bang my head against the table. The handcuffs are beginning to chafe my skin. Don’t they let you out of these things in holding? A few tears of boredom later, a woman walks in. She is slightly more composed than the man, and has her neat dark-blonde hair pinned in a bun. She isn’t too attractive, but I’m sure she’s married.

“Rachel Lay,” she says in a high, strict voice. She gingerly pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“You answered that question already.” I don’t have as much wit as I would like. She caught me a bit off guard. And here I thought all of these officers are predictable.

“You don’t understand the context of that question,” she says. “How dare you kill another human.”

I almost laugh. Almost. Danielle wasn’t exactly what you’d call human. Actually, she was something much worse. “There was no daring involved.” My wit had returned.

Oddly, the prim woman smiles. “You’re a smartass, and honestly, I don’t like you.”

“And you’re frank, but honestly, I like you,” I reply with a smile.

“Well, I guess we’re going to have to work between our differences. Now, will you please tell me what possessed you to kill this girl.”

“I think not,” I reply. “You see, everyone already believes I’ve fallen off the deep end, and I don’t want to drown by telling the truth.”

She raises an eyebrow at my metaphor. “I don’t believe you’ve fallen off the deep end. I just think you’re stupid, and yet…strangely wise.”

“That’s an oxymoron.”

“Let me clarify.” The woman takes off her glasses. “You’re stupid for murdering somebody. You’re wise in knowing to keep your cool.”

“I believe anyone with an IQ above seventy knows that,” I say dryly. “But thank you, anyway.”

“Do you know psychopaths are often glib?” the woman says abruptly.

I look at her, blinking a few times. “Who says ‘glib’ anymore?”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Just shut up and listen. Psychopaths are smooth talkers and can get their way often. Like you.”

“Do you think calling me a psychopath will help in this ‘interrogation’?” I say.

“No,” she says. Her voice is almost chipper. “I just want you to think about that.”

I don’t really think about it. What do I need to think about? I’ve already been called a psychopath by several people, and it is starting to lose its effect. Quite like saying ‘I love you’ too many times.

“What is your home life like?”

The woman is starting her questioning again. I know what she is trying. She wants to see if I had been abused or traumatized.

“I live a completely normal life. I have a mom, dad, and little brother. I’ve always been treated well, and had no triggers to turn me into a raving lunatic.”

I said it all with a toothpaste commercial smile. The woman just shakes her head.

“Have you ever-”

“No, I never had anything horrible happen to me in the past. I didn’t see anything traumatizing, nor did I ever eat human flesh.”

“I’m not accusing you of cannibalism,” she snaps.

“Why not?” I say. “You’re accusing me of everything else.”

We sit silently for a while. I still don’t know the woman’s name. With a sort of giddy realization, I come to terms with the fact that I have an obsession with knowing people’s names.

“Isn’t this something a psychologist should be doing?” I say, disturbing the pregnant silence.

“I am a psychologist,” she says, rubbing her temples. “Dr. Laura Conner is the name.”

“Then why are you here?”

She sighs. “Because I’m a dumbass.”

“Are you a teamster, too?” I say, noting her foul mouth.

“Hilarious,” she says. “Listen, you’ll be sent to the jail for tonight. We’ll resume this conversation tomorrow.”

I snorted when she said ‘conversation’. It’s as if I’m an old friend meeting her for lunch.

“See you later,” I say to her back.

The scary looking guys take me to a jail cell with a few haggard looking people. A lot of them have tattoos. I sit on the dirty bench that serves as a bed and try to fall asleep. It isn’t so easy when you have someone staring at you. At least the handcuffs are off.

“Do I have something on my face?” I ask the woman.

“Uh, no, it’s just…didn’t I see you on the news?”

The woman looks like a hick, but I’m not one to judge. She had curly blonde hair, and looks almost comical.

“Most likely,” I reply. “I killed someone.”

Everyone falls silent and stares. I assume there aren’t any other homicidal maniacs in the cell. It is a bit disappointing.

“Who?” the woman asks curiously.

“My best friend,” I reply.

“Why?”

I roll my eyes, having flashbacks to my English classes. I want to screw with her a bit. “She said she hated my haircut.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m a lunatic; I don’t have to be kidding.”

A foot of space gradually spreads between me and my terrified cellmates. I fall asleep with a smile, knowing that no one will try to do anything to me as I slumber.

-

In the morning, the jail cell is almost empty. I reek; the last time I had a shower was two days ago. Groaning, I lift my head off of the grimy wall, and look outside the cell to find Laura.

“Oh, you came to visit!” I say with false enthusiasm.

She moves aside to reveal my brother. He is only two years younger than me, and we look alike; same red hair, same brown eyes, same sharp features. His temples move as he clamps his mouth shut.

“Hey, Jamie,” I say softly.

Laura is probably surprised at my change in demeanor. I’m not witty, charming, or distant around him. I’m shy and ashamed.

“Rachel, I…” He doesn’t finish. He just shuts his mouth and looks at the floor. I’m the one who should be doing that. I shouldn’t be able to look him in his eyes after the pain I caused him.

But he doesn’t understand. None of them comprehend the situation.

“Please don’t leave me,” I hear Jamie whisper.

I close my eyes as I feel a pain in my chest. He isn’t making this any easier for me. So I lie. “I won’t.”

After realizing he has nothing to say, my brother leaves quietly with slumped shoulders. Laura lets me out of the cell.

“Time to talk, kid,” she says, almost sympathetically.

I walk with her down the yellow-painted hall.

“I wish everyone would stop calling me ‘kid’.”

-

Surprisingly, Laura lights a cigarette in the holding room.

“Is that legal?” I say.

She scoffs. “You’re one to talk.”

She has me there.

“So, are you going to tell me anything today?” she says, breathing in the smoke.

I deliberate. What harm would it do? Everyone I know already thinks I’m crazy. My strange story won’t change that.

“I’ll tell you everything that happened,” I say,” on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“After I tell you, send me to the chair.”

She seems slightly shocked at the request. She sets the cigarette in an ashtray. “It’s not like we weren’t already planning that, but why…”

“It doesn't matter,” I say tersely.

She sighs and taps her polished fingers on the table. “Whatever. Just get on with it.”

I nod without hesitation. I will tell her everything, and die afterwards so I won’t have to deal with it anymore.

I will be free of the truth. Just like Danielle.

Author's Note

Well, this is the first chapter. I really don't know what to put this book under. There are quite a few catagories it fits in. So. Let me explain something: I've never been to jail. So some things may be innacurate. Just tell me and I will be glad to fix it. Con-crit is needed.
P.S. The reason the chapter is written in present tense is because most of the book will be Rachel's memories. When it changes to past tense, you'll know that she's speaking of the past.
P.P.S. Just a warning if you want to continue reading. This won't have a happily ever after ending. Sorry.

Reviews

[nostal]

AWesome, again.

[tayzer--]

I'm really intrigued by this first chapter.
Write more soon--I'm glad it doesn't have a happy ending. There are too many of those.
Great job so far :)

[EliLies]

This is really, really, stunning.
I'm intrigued. Write more soon, I'm excited to read the second chapter.