Truth or Dare – Part 2

This is continuted from my previous article entitled “Truth or Dare – Part 1”. Please comment what you think!

In this part, the woman bears the consequences of her actions. Over the next couple of weeks, the third and final part will be uploaded which will be a short conclusion about her time in the jail.



When they arrived, the cold air in the apartment had suddenly boiled as I felt my forehead, moist with the sweat protruding from it. The tall officers towered in the main room, revealing nothing about themselves. On the contrary, they were rather tired and fatigued on this cold morning. My eyes, as moist as the sweat that trickled off of my forehead, moved further into my head as the police examined me, exactly as I had examined the people on the London floor below. Their eyes pierced into mine, darting restlessly as they searched for any sign of remorse from my part. Evidently, to escape my punishment, I sheepishly threw myself into the armchair, soliloquising a scream that shook the sky above me.

A phone rang. Ring after ring after ring continued at the highest pitch until the broad, chubby man rolled out of the room and continued to walk until he was preserved in a corner. Finally, the ringing stopped as a gruff yet slow voice greeted the man on the line: his smile (what existed of a smile) vanished completely as he hopped across the room, back onto the balcony and looked down. Shock subsided off his face as he checked the ground below for a signal from the officer that was barking into the phone at a volume I could hear.

Shannon, our eldest (I say ‘our’, and I would regard Shannon as his child as well if he cared for her), was at school today. Ever since the death of her father, which she thought was completely accidental, she felt more like going to school. As soon as the alarm clock sounded at 6:30am in the morning, it was abruptly turned off – I didn’t even hear the first syllable of the song begin. Maybe she is shocked; maybe she is feeling incomplete – her father actually cared for her; maybe she knew the truth.

While describing this, the officer (the fat, bald, Phil Mitchell equivalent) had run down the stairs – well I say “run”, but you know what I mean – and picked up an evidence bag. As I held the box of tissues next to me, the endless tears still streaming down my face, Phil marched up to me and thrust the bag in front of my face. Completely aware of what was in it, I dropped another shedload of tears and the officer retreated into the corner of the room. Once I had calmed down, he again approached me, but instead of throwing the bag into my face, he gently asked me about the bag as his cheeks folded into each other, forming ripples across his pale skin.

Completely avoiding his stare, I looked to the ground, as I fiddled with the tissue that I had shredded in my hand. As the crumbled pieces well to the floor, my eyes were lifted up, and I was greeted to the officers observant stare. He took the handcuffs out, as the metal clinked, and told me to bring my hands out in front.

Why would I argue? I would only be inviting my own death; I would only be digging myself deeper into a hole.

All I heard was “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence” as I was led out of the room, handcuffed, and escorted to the police car that halted. I was ushered in and taken away. As I looked up, I imagined how he must have felt, falling through the sky.


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