Lorena

My heart was pounding as I walked through the doors of the police station. The moment I sat down in a stiff, creaking chair, an officer called my name from across the small room. I froze, my eyes glued to the stranger's face. He was unshaven with a mole beside his nose that seemed to take the spotlight from the rest of his harsh features. 

I stood, my feet like cement bricks on the floor. Forcing myself forward, I kept a close look at my escort. His face was unflinching, everything about him harsh including the smell of black coffee and cigarettes rolling in clouds alongside me as he led the way. The corridor was bright and lined with heavy metal doors that could stand to have a fresh coat of paint. 

"In here, ma'am," he said hoarsely, shoving the door open with a broad shoulder and pulling a similarly stiff chair out from a matching metal table. 

My voice caught in my throat and he was back in the hallway with the door cracked open before I could thank him. My mind was still spinning, memories of the last month blending with inspired nightmares. Sitting in one of four seats in the room, I couldn't help but wonder how many people would listen to my story at once. Were three officers going to crowd around me, sipping fountain sodas and leaning close? 

My thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash, followed by a "Fuck!" on the opposite side of the wall behind my head. Maybe today was just as bad, maybe worse, for someone else here. It was safe to assume every room in this hallway was used for interrogations and things, right? My room was assigned the "let's meet in person and talk" room, as that's what a strange man had said to me over the phone a day prior. 

What felt like an hour went by before I heard that familiar voice from the phone echoing closer to me. The man with the mole was still comfortably leaning against the wall outside, his foot propping open the door. I didn't get a patient energy from him, which is what prompted me to check the clock above my head; the only thing adorned on the walls besides an AC vent with a thick layer of dust. The faint smell of mold lingered under my nose and for a moment all I could hear was a slight humming from the vent. The space felt sterile, yet thick with grime. I was grateful this would be the closest I'd be to a jail cell. Still staring at the clock, I realized only six minutes had passed since I'd glanced at my phone a moment before entering the station. Technically, I was still a few minutes early. 

A fog rolled over my brain as the familiar Boston accent entered the room, a tall elderly man attached to it. 

"Thanks for meeting with me, sweetheart," he started, dismissing my guard with a flick of his bony wrist, the watch around it loose and jangling. 

"Yeah, whatever you need," I said quickly, realizing then that I was watching his watch twist and settle while the doorknob did the same. We were alone. My fear of a crowd was quickly overshadowed by my fear of having only one other person here. 

"I'm David Wessinger," he started, though it took me a second to process what he had said at all. "I just want to ask you a few questions about what you saw in those woods back a few weeks ago," he continued, eluding to the assault that took place beside my father's cabin. Detective Wessinger sniffed and ran his hand over his short, spiked hair as he sat. His chair let out a shriek, as if his weight allowed it to feel pain. His seat was further back than mine, the beginnings of a beer belly bridging the gap between his chest and the table. 

"Tell me about that day you, uh-" he trailed off. 

Eyes on him, head low, bottom lip tucked neatly between my teeth, I offered a polite smile, as if to say 'I know what you mean. You don't have to finish the sentence'. And he didn't. 

"I found him maybe a mile from the cabin. I was staying there with my cousin for a couple nights, but she had to leave early that morning. We were going to leave later that day anyway, but she got called into work. She's a delivery nurse." 

I was forced to stop when I realized I hadn't taken a breath. I was speaking slowly, clearly, but the memory seemed to suck the life from my lungs. One deep breath from myself and an encouraging grunt from David later, I pushed on. 

"I figured I'd go on a walk, send her some pictures of the view- we get a great view," I added, feeling my eyebrows relax at the thought of rolling hills, old and tall trees held up only by luck, and mushrooms that lined the trails, sometimes lining up like stepping stones for rabbits and elves. 

"I think I was about a mile from the house when I saw him," I continued, cracking my knuckles gently between my fingers. It was hard to look into the large, dark eyes watching me as I recalled the event. It was too painful, still fresh in my mind and I had a suspicious feeling it would remain that way for quite some time. 

Detective Wessinger sat quietly, twirling his pen as he waited for me to gather my thoughts. He knew I was nervous; nervous to be so involved in a case I'd never intended on being a part of. 

"He was laying on his back, I think." I noticed a slight nod from him as he clicked his pen open. 

"Yeah, his back, because he was looking past me and I remember thinking that was weird. I was pretty close to him. He was bleeding from somewhere, I don't know where." Pausing in an attempt to brush the image of the man away, Detective Wessinger took the opportunity to write something down in a notepad that seemed to appear from out of nowhere.

"I just remember his hands covered in blood and he was gasping. That's all I remember," I spat out quickly, the taste of the memory sour on my tongue. 

The detective let out a grunt of finality, letting me know it was okay to stop. "Let's take a break. I know it's hard to think about," he assumed, leaning back in his seat. His shift in body language wasn't successful in relaxing me. I hated this entire process, but I understood its importance. They wanted justice and I wanted to get far away from it. Continuing on with your life after a stranger begs you for help was proving difficult. More than that, it was proving nearly impossible. 

He excused himself after a moment, asking if I'd like a glass of water or a soda. I'd declined, though my lips felt as if they'd stick together if I went long enough without opening my mouth. It wasn't long before Detective Wessinger was back in the room, smelling of fresh, black coffee. 

"How is he doing now?" I asked as he sat, a thought that I'd been hesitant to express. Once the ambulance had taken him, I'd been afraid to know his outcome. The man across from me, glasses on his head, the beginnings of lines around his mouth, seemed to understand the fear. I certainly wasn't the first person to experience something so vile. 

"He's in a coma," he started before I interrupted. 

"Medically induced?" I asked quickly, leaning forward attentively. He shook his head and let the corners of his lips fall a bit lower from their usual neutral position. 

Leaning back, I sighed and nodded. "He could still come out of it," I reminded myself. Detective Wessinger nodded again. 

"We're almost done. Would you mind just answering a few more questions?" 

I nodded and leaned forward, hands wedged tightly between my knees. 

"Had you seen that man before?" 

"No." 

"Did he say anything to you?" 

I swallowed hard. "Besides asking for help, no, not really. He might have cursed a little." 

"Mhm. Do you remember seeing anyone, any cars in the area, anything that might point us toward a suspect?" 

"You don't have any suspects?" I blurted out, furrowing my eyebrows in concern. 

He drew his thin lips into a flat line before he spoke. "We do, but we need to exhaust every option. We may be able to connect whoever this is to another case," he explained, sympathy in his eyes, a softer expression on his face. 

"No, I don't remember seeing anyone," I added after, a tightness growing in my chest as I realized there may never be justice for these strangers. What happened if no one was caught? Would they look forever? An endless quest for retribution? A glint of defeat passed over his face, but was quickly masked with a hard, unmoving shell. 

"I really didn't look though. And I was in shock. I'll tell you if I remember something new. I'm not trying to withold information, sir," I rambled, suddenly overcome with a feeling of guilt, of wasting his time. I wanted to point them in a good direction. I wanted to pretend I was okay and move on. He could sense my exhaustion, my stress. 

"You are not a suspect, Miss. I feel for you and I think you're brave for doing this, okay?" For the first time, a slight smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. I mustered a matching one in return, picking someone else's dried blood from my fingernails beneath the table. 

A weak laugh escaped me. 

"I just want this to be over."