Why Me?

*Space Humans note*

I'm not trying to say anything mean about police in this story, or trying to make them seem bad in any way. I'm just putting in plot. I hope you like this story ;)

A plump hand rests itself on my tan shoulder. The owner of this hand is angry. He's demanding, but can't demand. You can slip past him like a shadow in a cave. He has big bags under his eyes and small marks on his skin. The marks that you get when you sleep in an unusual position.

"Richard! I'm asking you nicely." If you were in my current position you would see that his bottom lip is quivering slightly. He's scared of his own son. I spin toward him and give an annoyed look.

"No. If you want bread, go get bread. It's two blocks away, and you haven't gotten up from the couch." I snatch a ruby colored strawberry from the plastic plate resting on the table and plop it into my mouth.

I walk to my bland square shaped room. It has vertical cracks running up and down the cotton colored walls. Rent in this area is to expensive for my dad to go out, and buy some other place, so I've been cramped up in here for months. Even this three room apartment takes up a significant amount of his pay. This apartment has one bedroom, so I sleep on a mattress in the living room that is much too small for me.

I'm almost to the pearl colored doorway when the plump hand grabs my collar almost choking me. My dad is at his last straw. He jabs his pointer finger in my chest.

"You are going to go get my bread. This is my house. If you don't want to get my bread, then get a job."

He pushes his finger away, and I can see a small sun burn like mark on top of his dull nail. It really bugs me, but my dad's right. If I continue to slouch he'll kick me out and I'll have to go to a shelter. But he's too scared of me to do that. I still want to obey him though, because even if him getting mad at you isn't scary, the general feeling of disappointment in the air pisses me off. Something inside informs me that what my dad's ideas for me if I don't work isn't typical. Maybe a better father would just push his son a little, or threaten to take away his phone. Maybe a mother just needs to be there for support.

My nose begins to sting and I shut my eyes like the half torn blinds in the living room, where my mattress rests on the creaky wooden floor. I use my sleeve to wipe a tear away so he doesn't see. There will be red splotches, so I rub around my face so that it looks like I'm creating a rash. He falls for it. Then he walks back to the kitchen, and I'm pretty sure we know the rest. A few minutes later, two bags of doritos are stuffed in his chubby arms. I shake my head lightly when he isn't looking, and my long dirty blonde hair meets my eyes. I brush the little strands away with my fingertips. By the crappy door, is a small shelf with some objects, where I grab the keys and my jacket that I got back in high-school. I had a big growth spurt before I got the jacket, and then I stopped growing. At least I'm taller than my dad. In fact, he's more width than height.

A few minutes after, I'm gone from his sight. If I could tiptoe around the window to spy on him, he would be slouched again, munching. But this isn't a country house. It's a city building.

I flush my thoughts away and step into the elevator with four people already inside. It's very crowded and I have to stand up tall, which is where I hit my head on the top. I curse under my breath, and a kid looks at me as if I've disobeyed the world. I remember I was like that. Back when my mom was in my life. Back when my dad had a good job and didn't slack. Before I finished school without a job, and came rushing home to be fed. I look away from the kid and stare at other people. Living in these big cities gets you used to these big crowds. It can be annoying during rush hour, but having working people is good for the city. It's like the fuel to the economy.

I hear a ding, and I step off the elevator following everyone else, and head out the lobby door. The doorwoman smiles at me as I leave.

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I'm almost into the store with a few dollars in my hand, when a loud bang splits the air. A gun comes flying into my hands, and all I can remember are the police with their donuts clutched in their fingers rushing at me with clubs.

O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O

"Richard Syaky. State your age and address. Oh also your phone number." The slim police man sits across from the hard table and stares blankly.

I try to push my hair away from my face and inspect my bump that makes my head throb, but it's difficult when your hands are handcuffed.

"Officer, I only remember a gun flying into my hands. I was getting bread for my dad. My dad knows I didn't bring a gun. Ask him!"

The man takes a sharp breath and continues.

"I'll need your address."

"27 Bilkmore Lane, between Hydro park and Wideway. 9th floor apartment 9G."

He gets out his ballpoint pen and scribbles on his pad. Then he sips some coffee and taps his foot. I want to punch him. I did nothing and he just doesn't care that he's got the wrong man. I think my face shows it because he tells me to stop.

20 minutes later, my mouth is tired, dry, and my cuffed hands are sweating. He finally leads me through a heavy door into some dirty cells.

He informs me, "You'll stay here supervised until we can have the jury decide weather you deserve to be let out." With that, he shoves me in, the metal clangs, and I'm alone. It's silent.

I try to scream but no one comes. Finally I give up and shout my last words for the next few months to come.

"WHY ME?!"

A police officer from upstairs shouts back telling me to be quiet.