A short story I wrote in a practice run for a scholarship exam I had to take. The theme was borders/boundaries. It's an interrogation into a murder.
The girl sat there, head hanging low as she wept. Rodriguez, the interrogator, was across from her, staring blankly at her, uncaring, unmoving.
"But I didn't do anything! I didn't do..." she trailed off, lapsing once again into indistinguishable utterings and mumble. Rodriguez stood, shoving his chair back and walked to the door, tapping the shatterproof pane twice to be let out. The chief was waiting.
"There's no point in carrying on today. She's a mess."
The girl was still sat in the room, her hands over her face and the quiet mutterings changed their tone slightly. She started laughing, quietly, a sinister little chuckle. Outside, the chief and Rodriguez heard nothing. The girl looked up into the one-way viewing window, knowing there was a camera there, and grinned. Her make-up had run all over her face, dark rivulets of mascara marking her face and caking into hair no longer auburn, but rather dull, dark and greasy.
"I know," said the girl, her voice barely distinguishable. The chief had just walked back into the viewing room and heard her, but what did she know? Had she killed the boy? James Mayview, age 8, throat slit, blood spread in a circle around his body and his organs arranged in a pentagram. Had she witnessed it? Until she talked, they knew nothing.
Rodriguez returned to the interrogation room, asking once again had she killed him. He put the pictures of the mutilated body onto the table, showing her the state the boy had been found in. The other officers were saying it was voodoo sacrifice, black magic, but to Rodriguez there was no such thing. It was just another loony decided to act on some sick, malicious whim. If the girl was responsible, then he was going to get it out of her and get the boy and his family justice. He was limited in what he could do though. No physical violence. She deserved that. Even if she'd just watched it, that was bad enough, and if not then she must have committed it.
"Found at the scene of the crime, blood on me, watching the body,..." She was mumbling too quietly for Rodriguez to hear. Louder then, she said, "He was such a little boy. Why would he wander so far from home? He was supposed to stay in the park. Always within the park fence. The blood, that was for the circle, whole, unbreakable. Blood everywhere." Rodriguez stared at her, it was the most she'd said. "He screamed, you know. Blood curdling, the screams went on." She looked down, paused.
"Did you kill James Mayview?" Once again Rodriguez asked, hoping for a full, clear confession. She began crying again. He was exasperated. What was wrong with this girl? Once again he sat there, waiting for her to answer. The time stretched on.
After a few minutes, she looked up again, grinning and laughing.
"I killed James Mayview. She didn't, snivelling whelp. I sliced open his throat with that little knife from the kitchen. The paring knife. The organs were just because I had extra time. Some of your theories were interesting. Black magic! Poor, wretched little girl tried to stop me. She can't anymore. No control." The confession carried on, detailing each disgusting little action. Rodriguez wanted to ask questions but feared she would stop talking again. "No restrictions for me. None of that 'good for society' cr*p."
Finally Rodriguez asked a question. "Who is she?" Throughout the confession she had referred to another 'she', but who? Maybe he could get an accessory to murder charge for someone else as well.
"She? Me. Well, the other me. The stupid, weak part of me. I only get to play when she is too weak to just get on with the dirty work, when she panics, is weak. Rodriguez was confused, but was beginning to think that the girl was trying for an insanity plea. She was certainly one hell of an actress. He walked out of the room to get the psychologist. There was no point in delaying things. The chief kept watching the girl; saw her go back to crying, before she sat up straight, reached into her mouth, pulled out something. She grinned, wide, a bright light in her eyes, as she drew the blade from left to right across her throat, slicing straight through her throat. The chief, on seeing the blade, leapt into action, ran round and burst into the interrogation room, just in time to hear one final, gurgling cackle.
The video playback carried on with the ensuing madness, but no one paid attention.
"She was suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder. There was nothing you could have done in her case. On the other hand, the question must be answered: how did she get the blade?" The detective asked, but no one knew. An accomplice? Suspicion reigned in the station.