Justice

She knew the sharp glare she was getting from the officer sitting opposite her was because of her nails tapping the steel table between them with an incessant staccato rhythm, but she couldn't bring herself to stop. The rhythm helped, the meaningless sound kept her grounded and reminded her of where she was. Of what she did. But most importantly, of why. Her leg shook under the table, another nervous tic that made her feel more human than she probably should. One glance at the cop confirmed that. He thought she was the monster. They probably all did. He shifted and cleared his throat, no doubt waiting for her to begin. She gave him nothing in return. Just that same tap tap tap that grated his nerves and made his jaw clench.

"Cold?" he asked her, the ice in his voice worse than any chill in the room. She shook her head no, despite the obvious goosebumps that covered her flesh. Yes, she was cold. It was so very cold. But she knew that was the shock more than anything. She told herself it would pass and continued to drum her nails in a pointless song that only she understood. He gave an exasperated sigh, drawing her eyes to his face. He looked to be about the age of her father, with world weary eyes that had dark circles resting underneath. His beard made him appear older than she was sure he was, and his mouth was set in a firm line, matching the scowl that covered his tired eyes. What bothered her most was his nose. It sat obviously crooked, as though it had been broken in the past too many times to heal properly. She wondered what the story was behind that, if there was one.

"You know why you're here?" he tried again, and this time she raised her eyebrow. That was a silly question; of course she knew why she was there.

"I killed a man." she finally spoke, her voice cracking under the effort of getting the sentence out. She frowned to herself, wondering how long it had been since she had actually spoke. The officer nodded, his eyes showing just a hint of curiosity under the chilly stare he had laid across her. She sighed softly, this was the part she was not looking forward to.

"Yeah you did. I wanna know why."

"No you don't." she told him. Now the officer raised his eyebrows at her, but she shook her head. She knew deep down he wasn't really interested in her story. In her reasons. In her life. He just wanted to get this over with and go home. In a way, she understood. But on the other hand, she knew the whole story. And it was too important a tale to waste on someone who didn't care much. She told him as much, causing a flash of defiance to cross his features.

"What if I said I did care?" he challenged her. She smiled just a touch; there was a crack in the ice after all. He didn't like being called out. He probably would have listened to her story just to prove her wrong. But that wasn't what she wanted either.

"You'd be lying." she told him confidently, gently. There was no hatefulness or accusation in her tone. Only fact. "You look like the only thing you care about is going home." His shoulders visibly sagged, confirming her statement more than his words could.

"Well, kid, you're not wrong. I've pulled two double shifts in a row, and I'm dog tired. But I still wanna know, what made you want to…"

"I didn't." she cut him off, her body stiff as anger raced through her tone. She did not want to kill him. She hated that it had to come to that point, hated herself for giving in to that route. It was a necessary evil, and nothing more. He gave her a disbelieving stare.

"You didn't what?"

"Want to." she insisted, shaking her head. "I would have rather it had not gone that way, but it couldn't have been helped." The officer coughed in a way that sounded terribly incredulous.

"Really? You could not have helped emptying a clip into his face at point blank range?" he asked her, and she could almost taste the scorn in his words. She winced. She would be the first to admit she may have gone a bit overboard, but he didn't understand. He wasn't there. He didn't have that same feeling of fear she had, the fear that overwhelms the senses, wraps around your throat and threatens to steal your life. The kind of fear that does succeed in stealing your breath. The fear that she could still feel if she closed her eyes. She lifted her gaze to his, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. Her tapping finally faltered as she set her hands flat out in front of her.

"No. I had to make very sure he wouldn't get up again." she whispered the words, the sound a mere ghost of a noise on his ears, but the officer heard her loud and clear. He shot her an angry glare, which caused her to flinch. He almost felt bad when she winced away. Almost.

"Sugar, those were hollow points. He wasn't going anywhere after the first shot. The rest were overkill. And I want to know why you felt the need to do it." She stared at her hands. Hollow points. Those, as it turned out, were a messy business. Exploding everywhere and creating more mess than it was probably worth. She had since been scrubbed clean and given clean clothes, her old ones taken to an evidence room where she was sure she would never see them again. But she could still see the blood splattered up her arms. Feel it under her fingernails. It was almost as if she was that lady in that play, scrubbing her hands and screaming about a stain that would never go away. But she was unable to scrub at the invisible stains; she had to sit fairly still and live with them.

"I wish I could make you understand." she told him gently with a slow shake of her head. She knew it didn't matter what was said at this point. She was to be arrested. That would not change.

She refused to answer any more of the officer's questions, no matter how much he nettled or harassed or begged. At one point he did plead with her.

"Please," he had said. "Make it easier on yourself and talk to me." She had shaken her head with that same hollowed out, resigned look on her face. Finally, he gave up, and they arrested her for murder. She nodded her head as they read her the charges. They had all known this was where they would end up, after all.

The trial was 30 days later. The officer that had interrogated her sat in the audience, behind the weeping mother of the victim. He was shocked at the girls garish appearance as they brought her out to the stand. Her eyes were sunk in, her skin ashy. Her face was gaunt and haunted, and her eyes were hollow and empty. Her fingers shook as she sat, still in cuffs that looked like they would fall off her thin wrists. The officer found himself missing the sound of her nails tapping on a metal desk.

The trial began as normal, with the prosecution describing the horrible crime the girl committed in the worst possible light. She had killed a man. In cold blood. At best she was psychotic, at worst she was a monster. The girl didn't even flinch under the nasty accusations. Then the defense attorney stood up.

"Your honor, if it pleases the court, I have a video that was recovered from inside the victim's home that I would like to present as evidence."

"Dear God, no." the girl whispered, staring in horror at the television that was being wheeled into the courtroom. She grabbed at the attorney's sleeve, in what appeared to be an effort to stop him, but her weak fingers were no match for the man's determined strides. He marched over and set up the video, pressing play harshly, almost angrily. The girl looked away, as though she knew exactly what was on that tape and couldn't bear to watch it. The officer raised his eyebrows; was this a video of the murder?

No. No, it was much worse. The video was of the girl and the victim. Of him violating her, of him hitting her, tormenting her. Laughing at her pain. Her voice tore through the screams as he carved up part of her skin with a blade, begging him to just leave her alone, or worse, to just kill her. The victim's mother screamed forgery. Several unknown people left the courtroom. The bailiff looked pale as a sheet and ready to puke. The officer sat shell shocked, unable to believe the level of abuse this girl was able to endure. And this was in one video. How long had she played victim before she had acted?

"I had to make sure he wouldn't get up again." she had told him. Now he understood. Damn it, she didn't deserve jail. Why didn't he see the signs before?

The girl didn't say much in her own defense. When she was asked how long she had known the victim, she had answered with, "Two years." When asked by the prosecution if she had any regrets about what she had done, she answered with amazing clarity.

"None whatsoever. I survived."

The officer stood in outrage as they took her back to jail, knowing it could be months or even years before they would be able to prove enough to justify her being released from jail, the red tape too much for them to muck through, especially with the victim's mother demanding justice for her son. But where was the justice for the girl? As though she read his mind, she turned back over her shoulder and met the officer's eyes. He couldn't help himself.

"I'm sorry." he whispered, hopeful she knew he meant it. She gave him a small smile, a smile with eyes full of peace. And then he knew.

She had survived, as she said. That was justice enough for her.