What Did You Do?

“What the hell are you doing here?” 

A bright light flashes across your face. It alerts you to the presence of others in the room with you. A room you could have sworn looked very, very different a moment ago. 

“I… what?” Your voice is hoarse and shaky, your throat burning as you try to speak. You subconsciously lick your lips, and realise how dry and cracked they are. There is an odd, metallic taste on your tongue as you pull in your top lip, and the bitterness almost makes you gag. 

The light roams across you again, and as your hearing comes back into focus, you recognise the stampede of several booted figures joining you in the empty room. A faint ringing echoes in your left ear, and you tilt your head down in an attempt to dislodge the irritating sound. 

“Tony… what the hell?” The voice is familiar, though you can’t regognise anyone among the dark, blurry faces now blocking the path between you and the exit. Even squinting your eyes, you make out little other than the flashing white lights of torches shining on your face. 

You reach a hand up to adjust nonexistent glasses, swiping at the air around you. A sticky, warm substance covers your palm; your fingers feel tacky, unclean, and you bring your dominant hand close to your eyes. Just as the light flickers over you again, you realise through the semi-darkness that your hand is covered in a dark red liquid. 

The tang of blood floods your senses, and thre ringing grows louder. Voices murmur from across the room, yet no-one tries to approach you. Not yet. 

As you lean back, away from the smell, you shuffle and feel something damp seeping through your trousers. Your knees are cold, almost numb, from being pressed to the ground for god-knows-how-long, and something large and still lays in front of you, a mountain of fabric throwing long shadows across the ground. 

It’s a dream, just a terrible, awful nightmare. Any minute now, you’ll wake up and be back in bed, and you’ll forget all about it before you’ve even finished your morning coffee. 

Squeezing your eyes tight, you take a deep breath and wait for the waking to happen. You wait to feel the heavy duvet flung across you at odd angles, to hear the light snores of Miranda from beside you, to smell the toast burning as it does every time your son tries to make himself breakfast. 

None of those things come to be. Several pairs of heavy boots stomp their way around the room, and you feel two strong hands lift you from under the arm, pinching hard as they haul you up. More lights brighten the room, and you almost collapse as they show the whole picture. Your blue tartan pyjama trousers are soaked from the knees down with sticky, dark blood. Your hands are stained, like you painted all over them, like you did years ago in art lessons at school. A pair of broken glasses lay beside one remaining slipper, the other no-where to be seen. 

You love those slippers. They were a Christmas gift years ago, and nothing since has been comparable to the comfort they offer. The colour has too been tarnished, from roaring orange to burnt crimson. You know you won’t see them again. 

Numb feet hit the ground, and you’re dimly aware that they, too, are covered with the same sticky mess. 

A voice follows as you are half-dragged from the room. A sheet is passed to someone behind, who you hear shakes it out and gently tosses it over the ground. 

“Tony- wait, wait a minute!” 

The voice is familiar, and you slowly turn to see Ron. A friend and fellow officer of the law, he watches you with confused brown eyes. A pair of handcuffs rest in his palm, but he hooks them back to his belt. 

“What the hell, Tony? What happened?” His face is still fuzzy, though you can see his lips moving. The room suddenly explodes with chaos, noises coming at you from all directions. You must visibly react to it, as Ron ushers you to a nearby room. Empty. 

The men holding you release their grip, but don’t let go. Your shoulders slump, a sudden tiredness taking over. Your head lolls to the side, and you blink slowly, stupidly, at Ron, still waiting for you to speak. 

“I… I was just in bed. I swear- I… I don’t know how I got here…” You mumble something else but it comes out incoherent. 

Ron runs a hand through greasy greying hair, and taps his chin impatiently. One of the people holding you up shakes you, and your head jumps back to attention. Mind moving far too fast to keep up with, you begin to ramble, everything crashing back all at once. 

“He… I heard the alarm going, my neighbour. Miranda said she’d call but- I wanted to check…” Your mouth opens and closes much like a fish, struggling to put each thought into words. “The door- it was broken, so I went in… there were noises coming from upstairs. I didn’t bring my gun, I didn’t think… I could’ve saved him if I’d just thought-” 

Ron grips your shoulders and shakes you hard. “What happened here, Tony? There’s no-one else in the house, we’ve already checked. What did you do?” 

Blinking at the man in confusion, you try to shrug off the guards standing beside you. “I tried to save him, I tried… the guy must’ve jumped out of a window, I heard something break when I got up the stairs, I thought- I thought I could save him.” 

Ron shook his head, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. “Tony, there wasn’t anyone else. All we’ve got is you, and now a dead guy.” 

Your eyes flick up at the sound of clinking metal. Ron unclips the handcuffs and holds them out to you. Your mind goes blank again, body numb, as the cold clicks around your bloody hands. 

“You have the right to remain silent…”