Scary Stories

Interrogation

"So what happened, buddy?" I ask, crouching down to meet his gaze. Tears are streaming down his face, and his skin has a pale, milky-white complexion, slightly reminiscent of someone I used to know.

"I wa-I was playing with him," he sniffles.

"Playing how?"

"Wi-with his toys?" he lowers his head, gaze drawn to the floor, like he's trying to remember.

"You were playing with your six-month old brother, and his toys?"

"Ye-yes?"

I stand up, pacing around the place restlessly. It's a small, cramped room, painted obnoxiously blue. A crib in the corner, a baby caller on a nightstand, rattles and stuffed animals and square wooden blocks all about. A standard nursery.

"So how did he get out of his crib?" I ask sternly. I need to throw him off his game. Something doesn't smell right.

"He di-did it himself?" he answers hesitantly.

"So your brother, six months old, climbed out of the crib, and down to the floor, all by his lonesome?"

"I-I lifted him out?" he peers at me quizzically.

"That sounds more plausible, buddy," I say. "Are you sure about that, though? You're not lying to me, are you?"

"N-no sir," he says, gaze drawn to the floor again. Such an obvious tell.

"And then what?"

"We, I, was playing with him on the floor."

"And?"

"And I tripped over something, and then I fell on top of him?"

"Are you sure that's what happened?" I say, staring at him accusedly.

"I mean, I lifted him up, and then I fell on top of him?"

"That would explain the neck injury," I smile, patting him on the head. "But I still think you are lying."

"N-no," he sniffles. "It's the truth, I swear."

He can't stop trembling. Shock I suppose. There is something pure about it, innocent. Like he truly believes it.

"So there was no one else here?" I ask, grabbing him by the shoulder firmly. You need to shake them up sometimes. Rattle them. Make them listen. They want to tell the truth. It's hard-coded in their DNA.

"N-no. I swear, sir," he sobs. "It was just me. It was just an accident."

Tragic really. Devastating. But he will recover from it eventually, I suppose. Years of therapy and heart-wrenching guilt, I am sure. But he will recover.

"Good boy," I say, ruffling his hair playfully. "I believe you."

He looks up at me, tears and snot streaming down his face in disgusting unison.

*They'll* believe him.

"OK, one more time before mommy comes home," I say solemnly, eyes drawn to the pale body of his brother on the floor. "We need to make sure you remember what you did, so mommy won't be mad at you."

"Yes, daddy."

Such a tragedy. But better him than me. He'll recover from it. Kids are resilient like that. Sometimes though you just need to shake them up.

Rattle them.

Need to make them listen.

Need to make them stop fucking crying all the fucking time.