AFTERMATH
1071 Words
The room smelled like disinfectant and old sweat.
It was a sharp, sterile smell meant to erase what had happened before, but it failed. Blood always left an echo. Walter could still taste it at the back of his tongue—metallic, bitter—no matter how many times he swallowed. His wrists burned where the cuffs bit into them, steel gnawing into flesh with every slight movement. He sat hunched forward on a metal chair bolted to the floor, elbows resting uselessly on the cold table, fingers twitching like they didn’t belong to him anymore.
The lights above hummed.
They were too bright. Too white. They pressed down on his skull, amplifying the dull throb at the back of his head until it felt like something was trying to claw its way out from inside his brain.
You should’ve stayed quiet, the voice whispered.
Walter shut his eyes.
Not now.
A door opened. The sound was loud in the small room, sharp enough to make him flinch. Footsteps followed—measured, confident. Someone who knew they were in control. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He knew that walk. He had walked like that once.
“Detective Walter Junior,” a voice said calmly. Too calmly. “Or should I say… former detective.”
Walter’s jaw tightened.
The chair scraped as someone sat across from him. Paper rustled. A pen clicked.
“You’ve been read your rights,” the man continued. “You’ve been processed. Medical says you’re clean enough to talk. So let’s talk.”
Walter laughed.
It came out dry. Broken. It surprised even him.
“Talk about what?” he muttered. “How I butchered my own family?”
Silence stretched.
Then: “Confession already?”
Walter’s head snapped up. His bloodshot eyes locked onto the man across from him. He was older. Late forties. Gray starting to creep into his temples. Clean suit. Clean hands. The kind of man who never got blood on himself but made damn sure others did.
“I didn’t kill them,” Walter said hoarsely.
The man studied him like a specimen. “You were found alone at the scene. Covered in blood. Murder weapons within arm’s reach. Drugs in your system.”
Walter blinked. “Drugs?”
The pen paused.
“Yes,” the man said. “Cocaine. Haloperidol. Something else we’re still identifying.”
Walter’s stomach dropped.
“No,” he whispered. “I don’t use—”
“Save it.” The man leaned back. “Your wife and daughter are dead, Walter. Brutally. And every piece of evidence points to you.”
Images slammed into his mind uninvited. The hammer. The axe. His daughter’s head. His wife’s empty eyes.
His chest constricted violently.
“I loved them,” he said. “They were everything.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. “According to your colleagues, your job came first. Always. Long hours. Missed calls. Missed anniversaries.”
Walter swallowed hard.
“They were… patient,” he murmured. “They understood.”
Did they? the voice whispered.
His hands curled into fists.
The door opened again. Another figure entered the room. Shorter. Broader. A familiar scar cutting across his cheek like a signature. Green eyes. Calculating.
Walter’s breath hitched.
Oscar Bob.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before Oscar looked away. Professional. Distant. But something flickered there. Doubt.
Good.
Oscar leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Forensics confirmed the blood on him matches the victims,” he said. “No sign of forced entry. No sign of struggle outside.”
Walter shook his head slowly. “I don’t remember doing it.”
“That’s convenient,” the first man said.
“I remember getting a call,” Walter insisted. “From a congressman. He said his life was in danger.”
The pen scratched against paper.
“Which congressman?”
Walter opened his mouth—
And stopped.
His mind stalled. Blank. The name sat just out of reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue refusing to be spoken.
“I…” His breathing quickened. “I don’t—”
“Memory loss,” the man said dryly. “How unfortunate.”
Walter’s head dropped forward. Sweat rolled down his spine.
You know the name, the voice hissed. You just don’t want to say it.
“Enough,” Walter growled.
Oscar shifted uncomfortably.
The man across the table leaned in. “You were known for being… intense, Walter. Ruthless. You didn’t bend. Didn’t play favorites. You made enemies.”
Walter looked up again. “So this is payback?”
“Or a breaking point.”
The words hit harder than any punch.
“You pushed yourself,” the man continued. “You isolated yourself. Maybe something snapped.”
Walter’s laugh came again—this time sharper. “If something snapped, wouldn’t you expect some warning signs? Complaints? Reports?”
Oscar hesitated. “There were… concerns.”
Walter turned to him slowly. “Concerns?”
Oscar’s jaw tightened. “You crossed lines.”
“Lines that put criminals behind bars.”
“You brutalized suspects.”
“They deserved it.”
Silence fell.
The man stood. “We’re done for now.”
“What happens to me?” Walter asked quietly.
The man paused at the door. “You go where all killers go.”
The door slammed shut.
Walter was alone again.
Time passed strangely after that. Blurred. Stretched. He was processed again. Stripped. Hosed down like an animal. Orange fabric replaced his clothes. His badge. His gun. His life.
They put him in a holding cell.
The stench was different here. Old piss. Fear. Rotting hope.
Eyes followed him as he was shoved inside. Whispers spread like disease.
“That’s him.”
“Cop.”
“Family killer.”
The cell door clanged shut.
Walter leaned against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to his chest. His head throbbed. His thoughts fractured.
You don’t belong here, the voice said softly. You belong with me.
“No,” Walter whispered.
He closed his eyes.
Blood again.
Screams.
Laughter.
His own.
He slammed his head back against the wall, hard enough to make stars explode behind his eyes.
“I didn’t kill them,” he whispered again.
But the words felt weaker now. Thinner.
Somewhere deep inside him, something dark shifted.
And smiled.
- Writer
