Her Artificial Hair [editing]

00 // prologue.

00 // prologue

Foreword/ Introduction: Whatever you want to call it.

"Ms. Wilde,"

 I'm willing to bet everything I own—which isn't really that much—that Severus Snape would be extremely jealous of the excessive amount of grease and hair-gel coated carelessly on the fine locks of the man who had just spoken out my last name in a very business-like manner.

But, I'm not going to tell him that.

The police officer, whose name I'm not so keen on finding out, looks over at me, sitting with all of my Alice glory. That is, handcuffs holding my hands firmly together, and a security camera (to which I had previously flipped the finger once entering), burning at the back of my head.

He's frowning, and honestly, I can't say I'm unhappy he is.

Now, I want to say one of those really witty remarks, stating that Ms. Wilde is one of my aunts or something. But, instead, I get enough of glaring at his eyes and eventually realize that crossing my arms is humanly impossible, at the instant, due to the fact that both my hands are pinned really strongly together.

Man, those handcuffs are really strong, what are they made of, again?

Steel?

Yeah, because nineteen year-old frail girls are really dangerous, if they don't have both hands glued together with an unbreakable coat of fucking METAL.

"What?"

I realize my tone isn't very 'convenient' to use, taking the fact I'm talking to a police officer, but what would you do if you're sitting in a small hot questioning room without air conditioning and a guy who constantly keeps calling you by your last name? Being polite isn't the first thing that comes to mind—my mind, at least.

"I asked you: Why did you start all of this chaos? Underage drinking, really, for someone who had such discipline, you didn't even have a record, I can't—"

"Excuse me? Did you just say 'chaos'?"

My burning desire to turn my chair around and look into my face in that magical police-y  mirror behind me—the one that basically shows my face to people, but keep me blind from what they're feeling about me—had instantly doubled.

I can already imagine what they're saying:

"What an awesome taste in clothes."

Okay, fine. Perhaps that's not exactly what's going through their minds, at the instant.

However, and on another note, if I dare to look at my reflection, I'm pretty sure I'll find my nose flaring with anger, my eyes red and my teeth gritting together in frustration. The police officer apparently seems to have figured his mistake of yelling out the stuff that I just did. Since I already did them, I should have a clue on what they are.

So, why is he repeating them? Right, because his desire of taking advantage of my anger-management needs is excruciating.

I doubt that he wants to remind me of the mistakes that I look back at now without an ounce of regret or compunction: I had every reason to do them and if time took me back about twelve hours ago, I would still do whatever landed me here in the first place.

He leans back in his chair and lowers his gaze onto the paperwork in front of him. Policeman my ass, he does not want to mess with me.  Apparently, and according to my file, from my 'chaos making', he figured my 'troublesome personality'  (of which I am very proud of, by the way) quickly, because, not only has his voice become slightly and suddenly trembling when asking me his next question, but in his eyes, I swear I could see some fear in there.