Mental Quarantine

“Seventeen minutes have already passed since your arrival!” the woman with the painfully tight ponytail hisses.

For a fraction of a second, she thrusts her wristwatch in front of my eyes, but in that brief moment I fail to catch the exact time.

Behind her, an analog clock hangs on the wall. It helps me determine how long I’ve been here: five past five-thirty. I lower my gaze and remember that I’m handcuffed to a metal bar fixed to the table.

“I just want to go home…,” I whisper, feeling the heavy stone on my chest. “Back to my parents.”

“After the police found you in the Lees’ house?” the woman asks incredulously. “Child, there were four other people in that room with you! How are we supposed to let you walk out of here? You are being charged with four counts of murder!”

“But I didn’t do it!” I shoot back, louder than intended. For a moment, the images flash before me again, those cold eyes, that merciless laugh, those voices. “I didn’t do it.” This time, my voice cracks.

“The evidence says otherwise,” the woman replies calmly and takes a sip of her coffee. A thin swirl of steam rises from the cup, drifting through the light before dissolving.

I stare down at my lap. The sweatpants I’m wearing are stained with blood. It’s long dry, and yet the fabric still clings to my skin. These pants aren’t even mine. Where did I get them? I want nothing more than to peel the fabric off me, to rip it away, but my hands can’t. The cuffs bite into my wrists, and every twitch makes it worse. I lift my gaze to the woman again. She studies me as though she’s trying to read my thoughts. Her eyes have narrowed to thin slits, and the fingers of her right hand, still clamped around the cup, tap rhythmically against the ceramic.

“Why are you so nervous?” she asks, leaning back in her chair. Her hand remains on the table, gripping the coffee as if her life depends on it. “I can tell when someone has something weighing on them. This is your chance to tell me your side of the story. Use it.”

“You expect me to confide in a complete stranger?” I snap, shaking my head. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Then you weren’t listening,” she says, standing abruptly. “My name is Jocelyn Arden. I’m the chief inspector in charge of this homicide investigation.”

It grates on me that she keeps addressing me informally while I maintain polite speech. But I won’t comment on it. It’s fine. She can do as she likes. I’m in no position to make demands.

“Then I apologize for my lack of attention,” I murmur. Jocelyn gives a curt nod. “It may sound unhelpful, but I honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you.”

She pulls a file from her black leather bag. I can’t tell if the leather is real or a convincing imitation. Compared to her, the bag looks almost new. Jocelyn herself seems like she could use a warm bath and a long night’s sleep. Understandable, it is Friday evening. She was probably just about to end her shift when I got dragged in here, and now she’s stuck dealing with a teenager who refuses to speak in coherent sentences.

“These are the photos of the victims from tonight,” Jocelyn says, spreading four medium-sized sheets across the table.

The first photo shows a boy with black, wavy hair and deep brown eyes. His thick eyebrows and warm complexion suit his face perfectly. She taps the picture. “Elias Amirmoez.” The second photo shows a stunningly handsome boy with straight, shoulder-length blond hair. His blue eyes seem to stare straight into my soul. A lump forms in my throat, my hands begin to tremble, and my stomach tightens. “Gilian Schmidt.” The third photo shows a boy with lightly tanned skin and shoulder-length light brown hair worn in braids. His large brown eyes look innocent, eyes that alone could soften people’s hearts. I swallow hard, my breath turns shallow, and for a moment everything around me blurs. “Navid Irvani.”

I know these faces. But these are not the people I once knew. Either they were always wearing masks, or time has shaped them into who they eventually became. My heart clenches; shame and fear constrict me. I fight the urge to let the memories take over. I cannot break down here. Not in front of her.

“Matthew Lee,” Jocelyn says finally, tapping the fourth photo.

A boy of Asian descent looks back at me. Black, straight hair, almost-black eyes, I could never forget that face. A faint smile flickers across my lips. My heart tightens again, but this time not out of grief. Instead it is a blend of pain and fear, mixed with the knowledge that this face is one I’ll probably only see in photographs from now on. My hands tremble, my breathing turns shallow, and I feel control over my body slip for a moment.

“How close were you to them?” the inspector asks, fixing her gaze on me once more. Her scrutinizing eyes bore into mine. “What could possibly have happened that made you decide to end the lives of these four young men?”

She probably knows the answer already, but she wants to hear it from me.

I shrug, sniffing softly. I can’t blow my nose anyway. “Does it matter? Apparently the friendship wasn’t good enough.”

“Why would you say that?” She’s trying to get through to me, but I won’t let her. “Were they good friends of yours? All of them were nearly two years older. What did you share that brought your lives together?”

Common ground? Maybe just the same small town, where you inevitably cross paths. Friends who stab you in the back and still smile innocently. In this town, plenty of people share similarities, but she’ll never understand them.

I shrug again. “None, really. Somehow we just ended up together. That’s all.”

The inspector looks at me in silence. Her eyes reveal that she’s not satisfied with my answers. Damn it, even I’m not satisfied with them. But I don’t want to talk about what happened in that room. If I could, I’d carve out the part of my brain that holds those memories. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel. I don’t care about any of it. Why doesn’t she put those photos back into her luxurious leather bag? Does she want to torment me with them? Force a reaction out of me?

“Why do you suspect me of committing the murders?” I hiss. “I’m the one who called the police!”

“The fact that you made the call is not proof of your innocence,” she replies calmly and this time, she’s the one who shrugs. So she really is trying to provoke me. “However, I’m quite certain you could easily recount what happened. After all, you were sitting right in the middle of the deceased. You know what took place. And if you didn’t commit these murders, then you shouldn’t have any trouble telling me who did. Should you?”

What’s the point of this? She talks as if she can stomach any truth the world has to offer. But what happens if I actually tell her everything? Will she understand the motive? No. She’ll dissect it, analyze every detail, reduce everything to facts. I just want to go home. Back to my parents. This room is cold. And the inspector is merciless. She doesn’t care about my feelings. All that matters to her is the investigation. I understand that, I do. But I’m still just a human being.

“Then lock me up already!” I snap. “Apparently it doesn’t matter anymore who’s guilty and who’s innocent.”

“That is precisely why we’re sitting here,” she says, her tone now a shade firmer. Is her patience running out? “If I didn’t want to hear your side of the story, I wouldn’t have tolerated your silence for seventeen minutes. And yet you’re fighting with everything you have to avoid telling me anything at all. How do you suggest we proceed?”

Why is she asking me that? Am I the inspector now? Do I know the law? What is this? Silence is probably my best option. Maybe she’ll realize how absurd her questions are and stop.

“Very well,” she says at last. “I’ll give you two options: either you talk to me and explain why you were in that room, or your parents can see you from the other side of the glass in the visitor area.”

My mother would be devastated to see me in a place like this. The worst part is that she wouldn’t blame me. She’d blame herself. She’s been through enough already. And my father? He has always stood behind me. Any daughter would be lucky to have a father like him. Knowing what they’re like, what right do I have to hurt them with my behavior?

“I don’t want that,” I whisper, feeling a knot tighten in my chest. I know I’m not ready to talk. Not about tonight.

“What don’t you want?” Jocelyn asks. One of her eyebrows lifts slightly. She’s alert, but careful.

“To be a disappointment to my parents,” I finally admit.

Jocelyn holds my gaze. I can feel her pulling me slowly out of hiding and I’m letting her.

“I’ll tell you everything,” I say, my voice fragile but determined. “Just… let me do it my way.”

She says nothing. Maybe she doesn’t fully understand what I mean. Maybe she just wants me to speak.

“I can’t tell you about tonight right away,” I say.

“Then what?” she asks quietly.

“I want to start at the beginning,” I answer. “I want to tell you how I met the boys and what truly connected us.”