WA 2- Draft 2

She raised her arms over her head while pacing across the cold tile floor. The light in the far right corner flickered in accordance to her rapid heartbeat. “What kind of person do they think I am?” she whispered to herself. She looked up at the mirror. Of course it was two-way, she’d seen all of those shows with them. She walked over to the middle of the room and kicked the cold metal table while dumping herself in the armless chair. Across the table sat another chair, but it soon would have company. She looked at her watch. “I’ve been in here for hours,” she thought. “They probably think I’m a crazy person,” she said under her breath. She glanced at the lonely chair, “Do you think I’m crazy? - Wait, what am I doing…I’m talking to a…a chair. Why shouldn’t they think I’m nut job? - Wait, they shouldn’t because I’m not. Because I wouldn’t do that to someone. And they can’t prove it either. I’m innocent.” She had to calm down, because if she didn’t, then she might say or do something that could cause her life to have an unpleasant ending. She closed her eyes and wedged her clasped hands between her legs. When she felt her senses becoming reasonable again, she opened her eyes and stared blankly at the smooth silver table. BAM! Her hands smacked the top of the table and she began bawl. Her grip loosened and her sweaty palms slid toward the edge of the table, leaving behind a faint impression of fingers outlined by fog. She was on the verge of loosing all hope.

Through her glassy vision she studied the walls, counting the rectangular cinder blocks by rows then by columns. She had to find something to do to keep her mind from having irrational thoughts. As she came around the room the next block she counted was right next to the door. She thought about the concept of a door. “You can enter or leave rooms using doors,” she considered. At that moment she realized that the use of doors were precious to many people, because it represents freedom, being able to walk in or out. “People who have a jail sentence for life don’t have doors,” she sadly figured. She continued counting cinder blocks, “five, six, seven”- but she paused. The door handle began to turn her stomach as well as the door. “This is it,” she sickly thought.

A man walked in the room and quickly sat in the lonely chair. For the longest time, he read and studied her file that was easily sitting in his hands. “Like my life,” she thought as she let out a silent sigh. She was waiting on pins and needles- no, knives and daggers. It was the most menacing moment she had experienced in her life. All she wanted was for the man to say was that she could go home, and there would be no charges. As much as she had hoped for it would be that simple, she could tell from the expression on his face that it wasn’t going to be. “Miss Thompson,” he spoke in a dry voice. “Yes???” she said. He took his hat off and placed it on the table. He rubbed his spiky, short hair, and then ventured down toward his beard. He looked up to speak to her, “Miss Thompson, you are under the arrest for the murder of Sergeant William M. Johnson. You have the right to an attorney, but frankly, it wouldn’t do you any good.” She knew what he meant by that. Even though she had accidentally caused the fender bender, she wasn’t the one to finish off the Sergeant. The man in the room was the officer who came to the scene of the accident when she called 9-1-1. He knew who had killed the Sergeant, and he knew it wasn’t her. He also knew that nobody would believe this girl if she tried to tell the truth. But most of all, he knew how to frame her.