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Can't Save What Doesn't Want To Be Rescued: Part Two

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I was surprised to know that I was in a hospital, but even more shocked to see the cops ask if I was Melanie Love, which was the name my mother named me; which I had changed as soon as I was old enough to leave the orphanage she left me at from when I was an infant. I said yes, and they asked to speak to me alone.
How could I refuse?
“I think you know what this is about Ms. Love” said the bulkier of the cops. His arms were massive, seeming to be the size of my body, and his intense blue eyes were burning into my head.
“P-please call me B-bliss” I stuttered, afraid to even breathe. I was never on the laws good side if you catch my drift. The shorter of the two cops, even though they were both bigger than Goliath, looked puzzled.
“It clearly states here Melanie Love,” he said with the puzzling look on his face leaking into his voice.
“I had it legally changed two years ago when I was eighteen,” I stated matter-a-factly. That was the same year I got addicted to tattoos and piercing. But nothing too severe, just a total of five tats that are on my arms, chest, and back; and the piercing are four each on both my left and right ears, and a small nose ring, and a belly button ring. I tried my tongue, but I couldn’t eat with that stupid thing in the way the entire tie, so I took it out.
But, since that wasn’t what the cops were asking about, I didn’t say it, and they just moved on with their interrogation.
“Where were you from the hours of two to five in the morning on Saturday, August 23?” asked the burly officer in an angered, murmured growl from the doorway, from where he didn’t move from. At this point I understood they were trying to play good cop, bad cop, because the one sitting beside the bed from me smiled encouragingly, and patted my hand.
I wasn’t that stupid.
I knew were I was, but I wasn’t going to tell them. This was approximately two weeks ago, and I remembered that night (err, morning) so vivid, it felt like the scene was imprinted in my memory. So, instead of answering him with the truth, I widened my eyes, having the bunny-in-the-headlights look of innocence; and I knew my look of innocence instantly worked on the larger of the cops when he widened his eyes and took a double take at me before staring at the floor.
“I was visiting my parent’s grave. I never knew them, so I feel closer to them when I go there,” I whispered it, choking on two of the words and wiping my finger across my nose to show I was on the verge of tears, even though I wasn’t. That was thing I was good at.
Manipulating, but in America, its called acting.
I looked back up at both of the cops, blinking fast, trying to hold back the tears I forced in my eyes- all fake.
“Why were you seeing them so early in the morning?” asked the ‘nicer’ of the cops, suspiciously.
“Their graves are all they way in Seattle, so it takes a few hours to go over there.” I tried again for the angelic look of innocence with the cop who sat next to me, knowing I already won over the harder of the two. He still seemed like I was holding out, but didn’t push the question farther. Instead, he shot out a series of different questions that gave me only a few seconds to think of my answers before answering them, as not to hesitate and make me look even more suspicious.
“Have you ever seen…?”
“No.”
“Where were you…?”
“At work.”
“Can someone back you up on that?”
“Yes. My boss and most of the other employees.”
“Did you ever go…?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
”But have y…?”
“Once, a few years ago.”
One question caused me to gasp aloud, making both cops eyebrows shoot up, looking at me with a sense of smugness.
“W-what?” I stammered.
“Have you ever seen this man?” asked the god/suspicious cop, holding a photograph up. My eyes were dizzy looking at the picture; the smile he wore frozen in the picture was causing my skin to burn with longing.
“Yes. He and I used to be friends. I occasionally see him from time to time.”
I recognized him as being the one with the brush, lingering it on my skin as I moaned in pleasure and begged for more. The sound of his voice was still burned into my memory, the way he called my name, beckoning me into the alley of dark pleasure.
“Bliss…” I thought I was hearing him call my name now, but as my eyes focused, I realized the detective was calling my name, waving his hand in front of my face.
“Yes. I recognize that man. His name is Collin Grim, and he is the father of my child.”




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~*The-Broken-Hearted-Girl*~ said...
Oct. 25, 2009 at 5:47 pm:
o.o You have to write more or i think i might die!!!!
 
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