Page 16 of Burn

My stomach drops so violently that I’m surprised we didn’t leave it on the street behind us. I let my head follow suit, dropping my eyes back to my hands cuffed in my lap.

“Even criminals don’t take too kindly to women beaters.”

Does this guy ever shut the fuck up?

The driver chimes in, “Maybe it wasn’t his girl. Maybe it was his guy that he caught with a girl.”

The passenger loves this idea, clapping his hands together.

“Oh, shit! Is that it? Was he your beau, and you caught him with a girl?”

They’re trying to get me going. They want me to react, to act out, to explode. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The suggestion is so stupid; if he was my guy, why would I hurt him like that? I didn’t mean to hurt her. I… fuck. I hurt her. The reminder twists deep in my guts. The guilt is heavy and unbearable.

“Is he… is he dead?” I choke out.

The weight of it all is too much. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t see straight. I wanted to release the pain inside of me by inflicting it on someone else. Both officers laugh; the sound reminds me of hyenas from a nature documentary I watched a few weeks ago. Loud, cackling, and jagged. It sends shivers down my spine because it doesn’t answer the question. The passenger lifts a hand and brushes his finger under his eye.

“Fuck, kid. That’s great. You’re hilarious.”

They return to murmuring to themselves. When they start talking about Alice, about her body, her ‘sweet young tits,’ I work on tuning them out; I can’t bear to hear what they say. These two appear to be in their twenties, but she’s my age. She’sonly sixteen. My skin crawls with each repulsive word they say to each other. When I hear the one on the right say, “You see her tight young pussy? Imagine what that would feel like…” I snap, slamming my already busted fist into the Plexiglas. The impact leaves a smear of blood across it, and the officer spins around, his taunting expression gone and replaced by rage.

“You think you’re fucking tough?” he booms. “You think you’re a big man? Just wait for jail, you little punk. You’ll make a pretty girlfriend for someone bigger, stronger, and scarier than you.”

His spittle decorates the partition, and even in the dark, I can see that his face is red with anger.

“Leave it alone, Chris,” the driver says.

They’re silent for the remainder of the drive. When we arrive at the station, Officer Chris, the pedophile police officer, yanks me out of the back of the car, slamming my head into the door jam.

He laughs and says, “Oops. Sorry, kid. You’re just such a big, strong guy.”

Chris and Curt each grab hold of one of my arms, and they drag me through the doors and down the long hallway of the police station. We walk for what feels like ages, past offices, desks, and a kitchen area, ultimately arriving at a large booking desk, which they shove me into. I stumble, lifting my cuffed hands to catch myself. A loud snap pulls my attention to a middle-aged woman behind the desk with thick, long braids intricately woven into her hair.

“Whatdya got for me, boys?” she deadpans, her lips smacking together with each chew on her gum. The sound is excruciating.

“Kid beat the ever living shit out of another couple of kids.”

My head snaps back toward Officer Chris.

“What?!” I exclaim.

I didn’t fight multiple people.

One of the officers kicks the back of my knee, and I buckle. My hands on the counter are the only thing that stops me from going down.

“Shut the fuck up, kid.”

I steady myself and let my head fall. I’m in so much trouble.

The woman behind the desk nods, popping her gum again, and says, “I got him. You two can go.”

She rises from her seat and rounds the desk, stopping a foot from me. She’s short, at least a foot shorter than me. She cranes her neck to look up at me and whistles.

“Fuck, you’re a big one, aren’t ya?” she reaches out, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go. We’ll get ya booked and call your parents. Ya got parents, kid?”

Fuck.

My dad.

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