Blackout Blues

Blackout Blues

Blackout Blues

“I have…blackouts. Sometimes-er, well. Not that often, really! Once or twice a month, maybe. But they don’t usually take

me that far, you know? I just usually stay at home. I don’t think you have the right guy.” I laughed tersely, taking in

the interrogator’s stony expression and watching the other officer’s face scrunch up in disgust. Well, so much for good

cop, bad cop. These guys are both playing bad, I mused internally. I drummed my fingers on the table, relieved to exert

my nervousness somehow. It was almost physically painful, bottling up my tension for, what was it? An hour? Two?

Whatever length of time we had been trapped in this stuffy little room. I ignored the irritated glance from the officer--

Bert, I think his name was-- and continued tapping. I tried focusing on the sound, focusing on blocking out the thoughts

that had been brewing like a magnificent storm, moments from unleashing hell on the rest of the world.


The first tendril of doubt was worming its way into my mind, ensnaring my confidence that what I was saying was the

truth and steadily suffocating it to make room for more doubt to grow. I mean, yes I did have blackouts, but I knew I

wouldn’t kill anyone. The very thought was ridiculous. I was a twenty-eight year old man trying to make ends meet as an

artist on the weekends and as an accountant the rest of the week. I worked nine to five, and I was a responsible, tax-

paying citizen, damnit. They had the wrong guy. I just had to keep telling myself that these guys were trained to make

me feel guilt for something I didn’t do. I just had to hold out for a bit longer.

"Can you describe the events that lead you to be in Miss Purquot's room at such a late hour?" the interrogator, Mr.

Jennings, leaned back in his chair, appearing uninterested in anything I had to say. Although his eyes were half-lidded

in a display of boredom, I had a feeling that his ears were fine-tuned to the sound of my voice and the subtle nuances

that might indicate that I was lying.

"I-well. We were acquaintances. We had er, met in the hallway the other week and had hit it off. She invited me over for

a late night movie and--" Abruptly, Mr. Jennings cut me off.

"What movie?"

"What?" I don't really see how that matters," I said. Do they really think that the movie sent me into a psychotic rage?

Maybe hypnotized me? Maybe a little girl came out of a well and did it. In my opinion, The Ring girl was just as likely

to have committed the murder as I was.

"Just answer the question," Bert said gruffly, his bulky form shifting from a slumped posture to one that said, "Make a

move, buddy, and I can kick your ass and will enjoy doing it, just try me."

I scrunched up my face in thought. "I think it was one of the Saw movies, I don't know which."

A quick glance was exchanged between the two officers.

"Bert?"

"Yes, Mr. Jennings?"

"Is that the movie you found in the DVD player at the scene?"

"Yes, Mr. Jennings. It was. Still playing, too."

"Thank you, Bert."

The bulky man grinned, and I was reminded of a dog who had just been praised by its master. I was tempted to ask him to

turn around to check and see if his ass was wagging back and forth, too.

"Did the gore...excite you? Did you want to re-create what you saw in the movie? Did you view it as art? We know that

you are an artist. Your painting lean towards the macabre, do they not? It only makes sense that you eventually would

want to add realism to your work."

I flushed angrily. How dare they imply that I was, God forbid, turned on by the awful deaths the people suffered in that

movie. Then to imply I wanted to re-create it as art with a real person! Revolting. I eyed the interrogator with

distaste.

"No. Not at all. I would never, that's, well. Just gross and wrong, isn't it? I would never do that. I work with

acrylics, gentleman. Paints. Paper. Not people and blood. My paintings lean towards the macabre yes, but that's just

what my, er, hand decides to paint." I finished lamely. Great, I thought, you made it sound as though your hand has a

mind of it's own. Of course, Mr. Jennings picked up on that right away.

"Do you feel your hand has a mind of it's own? Is that what you are telling me?" His face assumed an expression of

openness, as though I could admit that yes, my hand controls me, and he wouldn't judge me for it. Clever rat.

"No, no. That's not what I meant at all. It's just an artist's expression. I'm the painter, I control my hand. It, er.

doesn't think for itself." I gulped, hoping my explanation made sense.

Mr. Jennings nodded, accepting my explanation--or at least trying to look like he did.

"Will you excuse us for a moment?" he asked me.

"Oh. Sure?" I furrowed my brow, confused at this sudden shift.

"Bert? Come with me, please." Bert shuffled ahead of him and opened the door, an expression of respect and admiration

flitted across his wide face and settled in his beady eyes as he watched the interrogator leave the room. He lumbered

after Mr. Jennings after sending me a warning glare.

"Be back later," He rumbled, shutting the door tight behind him.

I was left alone with only my thoughts for company. My armpits felt damp, and the room was way too hot for comfort. Did

they turn the temperature up to get a reaction? They must have. How underhanded could they get?

I fanned myself with my hand and pulled at my collar. I licked my lips as I thought of a nice, cool glass of water.

A long, sweaty and uncomfortable ten minutes passed and my two demons stepped back into the tiny room. Mr. Jennings eyes

took in my sweaty appearance and hand fanning.

“Do you find this temperature uncomfortable mister…?” the interrogator questioned, his face contorted into an expression

of fake concern. This guy needed to go to acting classes like I needed a glass of chilled water. No matter what

expression he pulled, his eyes remained cold and distant; predatory.

“Kowalski. Mike Kowalski. It’s a bit hot in here, yeah” I tugged at my collar. He knew my name, how could he not? I had

been asked to say it probably half a dozen times in the hour or so we had been in here, and it was right there in bolded

letters on the damn file in front of him.

I stared at the manila folder with my name neatly printed on the top. Kowalski, Mike. What have you been up to that they

have in there? My fingers ceased their drumming and I curled them inward, nervously rubbing my fingers together to shake

off the burning urge to lunge across the table and grab the file. Was the car accident from ten years ago in there? I

felt nauseated at the memory, and suddenly the burning in my fingers was replaced with cold. I closed my eyes, blocking

out the memory of sirens and the wails of my friends. So much blood. I forced my eyes open. This is not the time to be

skipping down memory lane, Mike. I chided myself.

“Well Mr. Kowalski…Mike. Our air conditioning is broken, so there is not much we can do about that right now.”

Jerk, I thought vehemently, Why did you even mention the heat if you aren’t even going to offer me a glass of water.

Sneaky rat ass bastard, I fumed.

“…back to the question at hand” the interrogator finished, a pleased little smirk lifting the right corner of his thin

lips, as if he knew about the mental litany of curses I was slinging at him, and reveling in the fact that he knew I

wouldn’t call him out on his bastard move. He was right, too. I cursed myself, wishing I had balls made of iron instead

of whatever the hell beanbags were made out of.

He leaned forward suddenly, and a flash of triumph went through his eyes at this, “Did you kill Linda Purquot?” If not,

then why were you covered in her blood?” I shuddered at the memory. I had blacked out and had been woken up by the

landlady’s screaming. She claimed she had heard a ruckus (Honestly, who uses words like that? Ruckus? What was this, the

Breakfast Club?) and had come to check on it. So much blood. I paled, recalling the sticky, tacky feeling and the harsh

metallic taste. I gagged and the Bert looked alarmed, taking a step back from the table in case I was one of those

projectile vomiters. At that moment, I sort of wished I was. I knew exactly where I would aim too, right onto that smug

bastard of an interrogator’s face.

“I want my lawyer,” I said firmly, catching the glittering, triumphant eyes across from me and looked down, ashamed to

meet his predatory gaze. “But, you know, it wasn’t me,” I re-stated lamely, mumbling it to the table as if it would

somehow hear the truth in my words and come alive just to convince everyone else that what I was saying was right.

"But you don't remember." Mr. Jennings stated matter-of-factly, and it had the ring of finality to it. For whom the bell

tolls? At that moment, the bell was tolling for me.


*~~~*

Author's Note:

Hey guys!! This is my first post on here so sorry if the format is a bit wonky. Thanks for reading, REVIEW!! and let me know what you think :D