wip Sunday since yall have no idea what I've been up to
Two months later.
The walls around you are concrete. There's a mirror to one side, stretching across length of the wall without keeping any of the width. The flash of the overhead light off of it cuts your vision, more distracting than the back pain you're getting. When they'd walked you in here, past the scattered desks and the dead chatter, you'd thought- well, you don't know what you'd thought. Your brain feels a bit like it's been stuffed, your thoughts are cottony and everything feels muted. Colors, sounds, it's all… deadened.
Except for this fucking chair.
You squirm, trying to find a comfortable position. The wooden chair's back is just slightly too high to be comfortable, and there's no slouch or perfect posture you can take to make it stop digging into your spine. The officer in front of you narrows their eyes at you, lips curled at one corner with contempt. You're annoying them, you know. Each heavy scratch of their pen against notebook paper as they take your statement has been shorter and more terse than the last. To be fair to them, it wasn't like you didn't want to answer their questions, you just didn't know anything.
"I'm gonna ask you again-" the officer tries, voice flat but jaded with irritation, "-what do you remember?"
"I remember leaving the pub, then-" you chew your lip, wracking your brain for something to tell, something to explain how you ended up on your own doorstep so out of sorts that your neighbor had to call 999 to stop you from bloodying your hands on their door. You stare down at your lap, dig your thumb nail against the beginnings of a scab on your knuckle.
"Then?" You keep going through this dance, the question that prompts your silence, the irate follow up that leads nowhere.
"Then I'm on my doorstep," you press your nail harder against the scab, "and-" you can feel the spike of anxiety that had seized your chest, your nailpolish is grown out and chipped, but your nails are clipped short, where were you? "-and something is wrong, I don't have my keys, or my phone, and there's something-"
You can feel it underneath your skin. Squirming.
"-there's something inside me."
