Sesome Moet is pushed to the edge, when police arrive they rush the crime scene and are pleased to have an easy confession.Sesome has finally found a place where they cannot get him- an escape from his life. Prison. Or so he thinks.

-3:00 a.m. August 14, 2010: Argenta, California, USA-

"911 Operator how may I help you?"

"I wi-wish to report a crime,"

"What type of crime, Sir?"

"A murder..."

"Where do you think this happened?"

"It happened in my home..."

"Wher is that at Sir?"

"198, Shell Avenue. I-i am standing in the front yard,"

"Ok Sir. Now can you tell me exactly what you saw?"

"I killed my mother and a man,"

"Could you repeat that please, I am sending police please st-"

"I am staying in my yard... The gun is inside... Please send police quickly,"


The warm breeze of an August night ruffled the dark, damp hair of a teen, a soft sound of the cell phone hitting the grass. His head tilted forward, dark green eyes closed, head cradled in his hands, elbows rested on his thighs. This lithe male was wearing a long sleeved but thin shirt, a green jacket a top of that with simple blue jeans and tennis shoes. He sat there for maybe fifteen minutes before he heard the loud sirens of multiple police cars rushing to his house, to him. Ware that his eyes must have been slightly puffy and red, he had been crying the whole time he showered. Behind his eye lids, he could see the bright lights of the cop cars, he could hear doors opening and his neighbors muttering. He could hear the orders for him to stand. Green eyes opened, he rose (hands up as ordered ).

The male counted three police cars, at least four police men, but it was hard to count with lights glaring into his face. Following orders, he stepped forward, the patted him down, and then detained him before storming into the house. They would find a man and woman shot in the master bed room's expansive bed. The woman with a bullet straight through her head, still on the pillow, and the man slightly leaned off the bed and shot in the chest considering he had bolted up at the sound of the first shot. Roughly an hour later, the dark-haired male was sitting in an interrogation room. Hands cuffed to the table, waiting patiently. Eyes elvated as a male investigator, the male was probably late thirties as he walked in before instantly diverting them downward.

The End

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