Witness

"Anthony, we need you to tell us everything about that night," the short, plump man in the navy blue suit probably two or three sizes too small for him, said as he leant both hands flat on the desk in front of him, almost as an attempt to get to eye level with me. As if he was trying to somehow relate to me, or put my into a comfort zone so I'd talk to him.

Whatever he was attempting to do, it didn't work because my mouth remained zippered shut, and it would most likely stay like that. I couldn't say anything to anyone in the police force about Saturday night. It would land me being in the exact same place as my father, face down in a parking lot, my outline chalked along the surface and bright yellow tape reading "Police Line. Do Not Cross." hung around the scene of my last breath.

There was one witness there that night, and the worst part was, that the mob knew exactly who it was. They knew my name and what I looked like. Heck, I was in classes with some of their kids who could easily follow me home and access my address. Home. It wouldn’t be a home anymore. Not without Dad.

With my eyes slowly filling up, I decided that I didn't care how much of a pansy I appeared to be - I really wanted my mum. I'd just lost my father, plus I had to witness the whole thing, and not even twenty-four hours later, here I was, sitting in some cold pretty much empty room, having to tell the tale of the night I only ever wanted to forget, and giving identities of people who I didn't want to remember the names of, but knew anyway.

"Son, please co-operate," he tried again, loosening his tie in stress. A thin layer of sweat forming across his forehead as he attempted not to get too angry at me. It hurt somewhat, that he was getting so frustrated with me. Did he not know what I'd recently lost? What I had to witness?

No, he didn't, and he probably didn't care. He just wanted to get the men who did this behind bars, not because of my father, oh no, but so he can get that big fat pay rise that he desperately wants to buy his family more shit that they didn't need just to keep them happy. But money didn't buy happiness, I knew that first hand.

My lips curled together as they quivered slightly, tears forming in the creases of my eyes. All this stress. It was madness. I hadn't even had enough time to mourn yet. I hadn't been offered it yet. Not been given the opportunity to sit in my room with all the lights out and the curtains drawn as I listened to the most depressing music I owned, and just cry.

Cry because my father was dead. Cry because I couldn't do one thing to prevent it. Cry because I was too much of a pansy to tell the police what they needed to know; so whoever did this could rot in some dirty prison cell for causing my Dad so much pain for the last few moments of his life.

As soon as I'd gotten home, out of breath and sweating like I had a fever, my mother had began to question me. Asking what had taken my Dad and me so long, and where he actually was. Why he hadn't walked through the front door with me. I broke down then and there, falling at her feet and wailing into the floor boards. My sobs telling tales of the worst kind. We'd stayed up all night, crying in each others arms, before she decided we should go to the police.

She knew of the deals he made to try and make our life easier, it wasn't new to her, but she didn't think that things were as serious as they were. How did I know they were serious? Usually because, as ruthless as that gang could be, they wouldn't want to hurt someone’s son or daughter, so my Dad would take me along with him. Almost as some kind of protection for himself. Most of the time they knew that it was never the child’s fault for the parent’s mistakes, so shouldn't take it out on them. My father had taken me on Saturday, but had intended to keep my presence quiet, because we weren't supposed to be there long, or so he said. The only reason they were going to hurt me after killing him, was because I was the only witness, and I could tell anyone. They wanted to make sure I couldn't tell anyone, and they'd make sure to punish me if I did. Oh the things that could happen to them if I should leak what I knew, and who I'd seen.

So why wasn't I telling?

Oh yeah, I was scared shitless, that's why!

The plump man sighed and walked over to the door, opening it and jerking his head towards it as a sign that we would leave. He followed me out and shut the door, locking it with a large silver key, before walking with me along the corridor, resting his arm loosely around my shoulders, almost as another form of comfort. It still wasn't working.

"Why won't you talk to me, son?" He asked.

"I'm not your son," I snarled at him, shrugging his arm from around my shoulders before I glanced back down at the floor. "And I'm afraid," I whimpered out feeling like the pansy I truly was.

"I wouldn't be if I were you, once these men get behind bars, they'll be there for a very, very long time, maybe even life," he insisted, nodding for effect, as we walked into the police office canteen. As I looked around, I noticed that my mother wasn't there. Probably still being interrogated. I hoped she was okay, and wasn't getting too distressed by the whole thing. She had lost her husband after all.

"There's so many of them," I sighed, sitting in the chair across from the police officer. "You can't get them all behind bars, and the ones who get off free, they'll know who I am. Then you'll have someone sitting in here being interrogated into what happened the night of my murder. My mother will be all alone,"

The police officer sighed at my reluctance as he sipped at a cup of coffee that I hadn't even noticed him retrieving.

I was in a bubble, I'm almost certain. The only things that were going on in my mind were the events of Saturday night, and since then, I haven’t been able to focus on much else. I can hold short conversations, but not enough to make anything interesting or useful come of them. I wasn't aware of the amount of things actually going on around me.
After witnessing a death, most things around you get put on hold while you attempt to contain yourself, and get through what happened, in your own way.

"Anthony," the man said softly, snapping me from my thoughts, "You need to tell us what happened, and who was there,"

"I can't,"

It was then that he almost snapped: "Don't you realize why your father took you to the meeting with the gang that night? He knew what was going to happen, and he needed a witness!"