Short and Long Stories Part 2

Confessions of a Victim

"I know it must be hard for you, after everything that has happened, Brody. It always pains us when we have to make victims such as yourself relive such traumatic events, but please, can you help us by telling me what happened?"

Brody Williams, a boy of fifteen, sat shivering, seated at a metallic table in an interview room, a cup of cheap coffee steaming up into the cold air. "It's cold," said the boy. "And dark."

"Yes, I know. Sorry, but our heating's under maintenance. I could get you a blanket if you're suffering."

The boy sighed. "No, no, it's fine." He slipped his hoodie back on and zipped it up to his neck. He had always been the tough jock at school, surrounding himself with friends that looked up to him, admired him. He was the cool kind, everyone said, but now he looked up at the female officer with eyes of a frightened child. She was around her late thirties or early forties, her hair brown and straw-like; she wore little to no makeup.

Brody went to cup the coffee with his hands, but they were shaking so badly he feared he might spill it. He could still hear the screams, screams of fear and pain. God, the blood. So much blood.

It had happened in the cafeteria. Somehow the weakling boy with the curly red hair and acne-covered skin had managed to lock all the exits, preventing anyone else from getting in or out. Brody could see it now--the machete hacking away, the limbs flying off from the bodies of the students he had known and talked to, laughed or joked with, all of them lying in pools of blood and mangled flesh and tissue. He heard the girls scream--but it was Brody Patrick Rivers was after.

His eyes watered as the female cop listen to him, looking at him sympathetically. "I used to hurt him, call him names. He was always a weak little shit." The cop shuffled uncomfortably at that.

"What sort of thing or things did you used to do to him, Brody?" she asked softly.

"You know, like, typical stuff, I guess. Push him over, shoulder bashed him, knocked his books out of the dweebs hands and kicked him over when he bent down to pick them up. I shoved him in his locker, once. Poor Patrick was in there until the next morning."

"He had been in there all night?" The cop seemed to find that reprehensible.

Brody seemed distracted, fearful. "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?"

"Judy. Officer Judy, homicide."

"Officer Judy, am I in trouble here?"

She smiled warmly. "No, Brody. I just need to investigate what happened. That way we can seek the proper justice."

"But Patrick's already dead. I told you: he shot himself with that handgun."

Judy looked sad for a moment. "The whole incident was tragic; it should never have occurred. But please, tell me what else you did, or what you said other kids did to him."

"Is this being...you know, like, recorded?"

Judy nodded politely. "It is. Don't worry, it is merely to get your statement. After that, you're free to go."

Brody pondered, looking around the dark room. He'd never been in a police interview room before, and nor had he ever been in a police station in his little Midwestern town. "Well, you know, I once stuffed him in a trashcan--"

"Wouldn't he be a little big to fit in a trashcan?" She made a note, scribbling something down.

"Well, like, we were in elementary then. He was scared of, like, being in closed spaces. What you call it? Amnesaphobic or something?"

"Claustrophobic?"

"Sure, something or other. A few kids thought it would be fun to put him in closed spaces like that."