Foundation Crumbling

Red and blue lights were flashing, blinding my eyes. I could make out clumps of people and some cars. But for the most part, everything was a blur. Although, from what I could tell they seemed to be panicking, but I couldn't hear a thing. I felt queasy and before I knew it I was on my knees. The world around me was spinning and I couldn't breathe. My mouth was moving. I couldn't tell if I was trying to speak or trying to gasp for air. I had this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, then something cold touched me. Some cold hands grabbed me, pulling me to my feet, trying to make me move. But I could feel myself resisting , pulling every which way, trying to get free. I raised my hand to my face to move my hair out of the way. They were wet, warm. It was blood and the sight of it made me nauseous. I was hurting, but searched and found no wounds on my body. The pain I was feeling was more of a mental pain. So the question I couldn't bring myself to ask was who's blood was on my hands, in both the literal and figurative sense. Cause the way I was being forced into a police car told me I was a prime suspect in whatever had happened. I couldn't think of myself as a killer. But I couldn't come up with any other explanation to why there was blood on my hands either. I was driven to the police station and escorted into an interrogation room. The ride was short, fast. They sat me at a table facing the mirror. I sat shaking, looking back and forth from my hands to my reflection. My hair was a hot mess, curly, frizzy like I've been camping and haven't washed it in days. My mascara had run and my eyeliner had smudged. Dried blood was all over my hands and face. My eyes were red and I wore an unfamiliar frown. Everything about this girl in the mirror was unrecognizable. I sat listening to the sound of the clock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. I was there for eight minutes, before a police officer came in and sat a cup of water on the table. When he reached the table I found myself tensing up, placing my hands under the table and sitting up straight. Probably just a natural reaction being in a new place, confused as I was. Cause the officer didn't look frightening. In fact he looked friendly. He came in quietly, setting the cup down gently. He even attempted to make eye contact with me, but I stared straight forward and he left the room leaving the door open. A cold breeze came through and I started to shiver. I turned my gaze away from myself to the water, until something outside caught my attention. There was bunch of chatter, sounded almost like a quarrel. I tried to focus on what they were saying.

"Where is she?" I heard a familiar voice.

Then another voice said, "In there."

"What about her mother?" the first guy spoke again.

Were they talking about me? My mother? I was anxiously waiting for the man to answer. But it was something I was completely unprepared for. "Miranda...", the man began. There was a pause, a delay in his response. But he was talking about my mother and I was growing inpatient. Get on with it already. I wanted to scream!

And then it came. The words I will come to dread, "Miranda is dead."