The Normal's Game

Ch. 1-2: A Mistake by Pen

The door was urged open as the scent of a burning flame greeted their senses, along with the blonde host of the house. The two guests took their seats, still warm from before they left, continuing to question the mother. 

"Apologies for the personal question, Mrs Lucille, but where is Ted's father?" the noirette asked with the blonde's eyes widening as a response. 

Her words began to twist and contort like her mouth was doing gymnastics, clearly surprised and uncomfortable from the question asked. "I-uhm-well-sorry, sorry, I wasn't expecting such a strange question. W-why must you know, Mr Smith?"

Michael's glare on Gwen was like a knife pierced onto a piece of paper, pinning it to the wall. The black-dressed pressed onwards, as if to choke an answer out of the blonde, unsatisfied by the blonde dodging the question. "Mrs Lucille, if you wish for us to provide some case that your son is in any way innocent, then you must tell us all the relevant details!"

"Theodore, calm down, let her continue at her own pace!" the brunette intervened, attempting to cool down the questioning as it kept getting pushed to a boil. At the minimum, the spill of black ink on the canvas before is gone now. 

"He left."

Four of the six eyes in the room were locked onto the remaining two, two that glowed like a child who had been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. They resonated with guilt and sorrow, or rather a balanced blend of both. Her husband had left her because he had caught her cheating on him, red-handed, that was the story she told the two men. 

"And when did you and your husband divorce?" Michael asked, no pity was in his eyes. In fact, there was something else there that wasn't there before: resentment. 

"Two years ago."

"Quite pathetic of you, wasn't it, Mrs Lucille?" the noirette's question was nothing but rhetorical, smearing her as a careless, irresponsible, blinded fool. 

"Theodore!" Arvel scolded. The blonde woman was looking down on the floor, the silhouette figure of shame towered above her head. Nevertheless, Michael's face was that of a blank sheet, unfazed by what he had said, his fingers were tapping the seat's armrest. 

The noirette's glare stabbed the woman, a glare that very closely resembled the one given to the brunette several hours prior. One that seemed to have no understanding nor tolerance, one that you would give to the most despicable of us. Perhaps it stems from a place of sorrow, one that he has not let go of. "Well, is what I'm saying wrong? Perhaps people need to learn that their actions, especially those simply motivated by their blind desires, have consequences that other people wish not to deal with. One of those people is your son."

Michael's words were like a knife, not only to the mother, but also to the ambience, cutting its neck to silence the room. "Insult me all you like, Theodore, I know what I did. That's why I just want my son back, he's all I have left ... "

The tension burst at the sound of a gentle sob, one from a still grieving mother, though Michael appeared to have no essence of remorse in his heart for making the poor woman cry. Had her son truly brutally murdered a child, Michael had brutally murdered what was left of her. 

"I'll see what I can find that may help your son. Though don't be surprise if I find that your son is truly guilty. And realize, if he is, the blood of a child and the tears of another are on your hands." The noirette's steps faded away from the songs of an apologizing brunette. 

Steps echoed through the halls, into the accused murderer's room, Michael went. Piles of books, stacks of paper, nothing unordinary but a navy backpack; blood was on it, yet it was not taken in as evidence. More books, test papers, a pencil case with a single pen in it, oh could there be anything that doesn't resemble ordinary in a student's bag.