The Detective reminds you of your son.
You don’t know why.
She doesn’t talk the same. She doesn’t even act the same. She always seems to be off in her own world.
Perhaps its her eyes. But how could you tell? She wears no glasses, but your son…
She claims…
You wonder if you could float in the clouds and throw lightning bolts careening down at unsuspecting victims below.
Perhaps you could. You can do a lot of things.
You can almost feel the electricity at your fingertips.
But you better not.
Whether…
What if you were normal?
What if you were brought up like all the other girls?
You wouldn’t be who you are today. You wouldn’t be The Detective.
But maybe you’d have a room like hers.
A girly room.
Pink comforter. White wooden bed. Four bedposts. Big…
When she says jump, you ask how high.
When she says frown, you ask: “how much?”
Oh, about like this, she says, before grabbing the corners of your mouth with her hands, and pulling them way, way farther down than they were ever meant to go.
You’re sure…
You’ve always had memory problems. Not like her.
You startle. Was that—?
You’re sure she must be chasing you. You’re sure she must be right on your tail.
The Detective.
They say she always knows. They say she rarely participates in a case. They…
They keep bumbling about the white tile. They think it’s a lead.
You tell them it’s obvious. The killer had a sense of aesthetics.
They don’t believe you. Typical. No-one believes the boss.
If you were the killer, you’d certainly have a sense of…
You hate talking with fathers. You hated talking with your father. Well, sometimes. You can’t remember. It’s been years.
You say so.
He makes some comment about your age. Is he implying something? Whatever.
Perhaps he didn’t like you telling…
Step forward. Step back. Forward. Back.
What is that? A speck of dirt? No, just an ant. Why is there an ant?
The boy has a couple crumbs on his jeans. Perhaps he was eating.
Did he choke? No— clear signs of violence, remember? Of course you do, you…