The room was small—too small.
Four concrete-gray walls boxed me in, silent and heavy. No windows. No vents I could see. Just one battered metal table in the middle, one overhead light that buzzed like a dying insect, and a ticking wall clock that never missed a beat.Its hands crawled forward, each second scraping deeper into my head like claws.
The room smelled like old coffee, burnt paper, and hospital-grade bleach.Someone had tried to clean up whatever happened here last—but not enough. Not really.
The table between us was scratched, worn, and covered in carved initials—marks left behind by people who probably sat here just like I was. Scared. Alone. Waiting.
Detective McCarthy sat across from me, hunched a little in his chair. His suit looked like it had been slept in, tie loose, belly pushing the buttons of his shirt to the edge. He didn't have the kind of face you trusted. Heavy brow, tired eyes, jaw unshaven.
Still, he didn't seem cruel. Just… worn down.
He studied me in silence for a few seconds. Then clicked his pen with one loud snap.
"So," he said, voice flat and unimpressed. "Did they read you your rights?"
I didn't look up. My hands were cold and slick with sweat. My fingers twisted around each other in my lap.
He leaned in slightly. "Kid," he said, softer now, "if you can't talk, then nod. Something. Anything."
I raised my head just enough to meet his eyes.They were small and sharp, like he was trying to see through me.I nodded. Barely.
"Good," he muttered, settling back in his chair. It groaned under his weight as he folded his arms across his chest.
"Here's how this is gonna go."
I swallowed hard. My throat felt dry, like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper.
"We've already got a stack of witness statements," he said, voice steady. "Dozens of them. People who saw what happened today. People who swear they know what went down."
He let the words hang, like he was daring me to speak.
"But I want to hear it from you. Your side. What you saw. What you did."
He tapped his pen against the table. Once. Twice. Then waited.
I didn't answer. My chest tightened. My stomach twisted.
He sighed. Not annoyed—just tired.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table now. His voice dropped lower, more serious.
"Listen, kid. Staying quiet isn't helping you. Right now? It looks bad. Real bad. And I'm not talking about school suspension or some call to your mom."
I finally looked up, slowly. His face was close now. I could smell his coffee breath. Bitter. Burnt.
"They're talking real charges," he continued. "Stuff that doesn't just go away. Assault. Disturbance. Resisting. Maybe more."
I shook my head fast, lips parting but no words coming out.
"If you don't say something soon," he warned, "they're gonna pin the whole thing on you. Twenty years behind bars, maybe more. That's what we're looking at here."
My voice cracked. "No…"
Tears started to well up. My lip trembled, and I hated how weak I sounded.
"I didn't do anything," I said, almost a whisper. "I didn't do it. I swear."
He watched me for a beat. No reaction. No nod. No sigh. Just that same unreadable stare.
"Then tell me what happened."
And I did.The words came in a flood. Shaky, broken, full of stutters. But I told him everything.
How I was just standing in the lunch line. How she came up to me, said something I barely heard, then grabbed my arm.How the others were already waiting. How fast it all happened—fists in my stomach, knees to my ribs, someone's boot smashing my side while I curled up and begged them to stop.How no one helped.How I thought I was going to die right there on the cafeteria floor.
He didn't interrupt. Just kept writing, pen scratching across the paper. Once in a while, he'd pause and glance up at me, expression unreadable.
When I finished, I wiped my face with my sleeve. My hands were shaking.
McCarthy clicked his pen again and shut the notebook with a soft thud.
"Alright," he said. "That's… interesting."
I sniffled. "Do you believe me?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Doesn't matter what I believe," he said calmly. "What matters is what we can prove."
His words sank into me like cold water.
"You got anything else?" he asked. "Something you forgot to mention? Anything at all?"
I shook my head.
He watched me for a few seconds longer, then stood up. The chair scraped across the floor with a harsh screech.
"You've had a rough night," he muttered. "How about we get you a break?"
I didn't answer.
"You like pizza?"
I nodded slowly.
He gave a faint smile. "And grape soda?"
Another nod.
"Alright. Sit tight. I'll be back in a few."
He walked to the door and pulled it open. Just before he stepped through, he looked back at me one last time. Something passed through his eyes—tiredness, maybe even a flicker of pity.
Then he shut the door behind him with a heavy click.
The lock slid into place.
Silence returned.
The clock on the wall ticked on, merciless and slow.The light buzzed and flickered.The smell of disinfectant and old sweat clung to the room like a second skin.
And I sat there, cold and alone.Alone with my thoughts.Alone with the fear.
Wondering if that door would ever open again.