Caged

As he stepped through the double paned doors of the police station, the man grinned. He knew that these authorities would see his claims as farfetched; ridiculous and delusional, at best. But he had to try. He knew what he’d seen, and he knew that, with time, he could prove their judgments wrong.

It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do with his time.

After an entire day of planning the explanation he would give them and cleaning himself up to look like someone who was to be trusted, the same mischievous man that had walked the streets of the young couple’s neighborhood hours ago now held the same broken instrument in arm; and now, in the dead of night, he stepped through those double paned doors.

The officer on duty glanced up warily, his expression probing and incredulous of the man before him. Supposing that this person didn’t look all too suspicious, the uniformed man sat up in his wheeled computer chair, peering at the newly entered guest from behind his desk.

“What can I do for you at this time of night, sir?” the officer asked calmly, his brows knitting together as a smile set itself stonily into the odd man’s features.

The smile wasn’t a normal thing. It wasn’t friendly, or welcoming, or grateful. It was wide, a curled, twisted thing—something that made the man to give off an extremely ominous vibe.

Despite the obligation to help him, the officer seemed to sense at once that there was
something about this man that wasn’t right.