The dark engulfs her. The gallop of her heart melds into the ticking of the clock, drowning out any sound that signifies her existence. She feels coated, her trembling hands sticky with a substance red as the purest wine; a deep, dark and rich. A substance that once flowed through the veins of an individual that now lies --silent-- at the bottom of the stairs.

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“My mother said my eyes were special,” and they are, pools of reflective jade, fringed by barely-detectable white-blonde lashes. The girl’s voice matches her exterior: delicate and breakable. I think back to what I watched a few minutes ago, her first interrogation, where she had sounded like a frantic sewing machine, even the low-quality microphone able to pick up the way she stitched, binding her words together with an invisible needle and . I take another quick look at her, right as she yanks a bitten-to-the-quick finger from her mouth. I swiftly check-mark the “Exhibits Anxiety” box.

My third time as lead interrogator, and I can’t get a stupid radio song out of my head. ‘Get it together, Brian.’ I internally slap myself awake. I check my clipboard, scanning the page for the patient’s name: Jane Doe. Ah, the astounding investigative powers of the Anhearst County P.D. ‘Jane’ doesn’t seem to mind the quiet. My eyes search the holy clipboard again, as if it contains magical advice within the scribbled diagnostic reports it holds.

“You can stop looking at that.” the girl says. Well, she’s a teeny bit more forward today. My eyes document her appearance, her angles sharp under the thin hospital gown that drapes over her. Are hospital gowns made out of paper or cloth? I guess it depends--she tilts her head and I snap out of my inquiry.

“Mhmm… Yes,” I reply, using my superior voice. Marie always says I sound so professional when I do that. ‘Following with a question is usually a good way of establishing authority,’ textbook words ring in my ear. “So, tell me…” The clipboard Brian, the clipboard! I glance down once again. “How you came to be where you are right now.”

Jane Doe absent-mindedly grabs a lock of her hair, winding it around her twig of a finger. Such a normal action startles me.

“Well, that could take quite a while if I started from the beginning,” she says, and I watch as the pale girl undergoes a subtle yet astounding change. Her voice is stronger, her eyes brighter, her cheeks pinken… A small smile plays on her lips, although her eyes seem to beg for an end. A thought comes to me, and I wonder if this girl weaved her words together so tightly before in order not to unravel.