Sirens.
A harsh clangorous percussion constantly blaring. I remember a man, uniformed in neon green clothes that were patterned with luminous grey stripes. He pulled my wrist behind my back with force and bound them with cuffs. Unwilling, I yelled out, kicking around violently. The man wrapped his arms around my lower waist and lifted me up onto his back effortlessly, almost as if I was as light as a feather.
I was trapped. Nowhere to escape. With my hands behind my back, and my legs grasped together, I was thrown into a black and white car, with a clear emblem reading 'police' on the far side. A woman this time- also uniformed- sat beside me, keeping my wrists and legs bound. She closed the two doors behind me, securing the lock.
I was too drowsy to even scream. I couldn't move a muscle. The events of my Father's murder replayed in my mind repeatitively, until I closed my eyes and eventually fell unconcious.
*******************
I woke up, surrounded by an oppressive darkness. It obscured my vision and hindered my breath. I couldn't tell where I was or remember how I had gotten here... It was eerily quiet.
After a few empty moments, the silence was suddenly shattered by the grating screech of metal. A door in front of me, made of nothing but several bars, slowly opened, to reveal a female, dressed formally, standing before me. There was a large file in her hands, packed with many pages of digital typing. She sat down beside me. "Your name is Ryan Wyatt, if I'm not mistaken?" she said, her voice low and sharp.
"You are mistaken." I said, "My name is Ryder Wyatt."
"Right then, Ryder, my apologies. My name is Naomi, and I'm here to ask you a few questions about your Father." she said in return, "Can you tell me a bit about him?"
I stayed silent, keeping my gaze low.
"Ryder?" she called out my name, tapping my shoulder.
Irritated, I moved her hand aside and looked up. "His name was David Wyatt, aged 47, born September 23rd 1925."
"And can you tell me how he died?" she asked, not looking away from me once.
"I stabbed him."
Naomi looked at me, concerned. "Then strangled him until I could no longer feel his pulse."
She scribbled down the information, letting out a deep breath. "Okay...and can you tell me if there was anybody you live with, other than your Father? A Mother, a friend, a relative?"
"I don't have any friends or relatives. My Mother died." I said.
She suddenly stopped and looked up at me. "How did your Mother die?..."
I looked at her, blank. "Don't you know? You fools believed my Father after he said he made up some daft story, explaining how he didn't kill her, but he did! He stabbed her in the neck. He did it right in front of my eyes, and continued until her face was no longer recognisab-" I was interrupted by the woman slamming her book shut abruptly.
"I think I've heard enough. Get some rest." she got up and walked out of the room, as if nothing had happened.
************************
Morning had finally arrived, and I let out a progressive yawn. The mattress I was given was terribly cramped; a pillow itself took all the room. As I sat up, the cell door opened, and standing there was a guard- dressed in a black defence vest, a long saiga gun resting on his broad shoulders. "You're needed in COURT ROOM 3." he commanded, his deep voice making me shiver. I got out of bed, shoes still on from yesterday, my clothes wrinkled and worn. He grabbed my arm, making me wince. "Hey, easy!" I screeched. The guard dragged me down several corridors, (too many to count), and we eventually stopped at a solid wooden door, with a sign that read: 'COURT ROOM 3- Murder suspects.'
I looked back at the guard who stood beside the door, staring at the wall in front of him. "Do you people just stare at walls all day?" I asked, slightly dumb-founded.
The guard stood there, not answering.
"Fine, if you're not going to answer, at least tell me what you brought me here for."
He grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. I rolled my eyes at him and scoffed. "Thanks I guess."
Walking into the room- it was utterly astonishing. The room was a large hall, the ceilings reaching up by a great amount. Each side of the room was invaded with people, not a single seat empty. There was only a single window, stretching across a whole wall. The glass was covered with two large, red fabric curtains, partitioned slightly in the middle. I looked ahead. There were 2 platforms. One of them was incredibly high, a large barrier enclosing it and 2 judges that sat on a high chair. The other was slightly lower, with another high chair- this time it was empty. On it, was a large sign reading: 'Ryder Wyatt- suspect.' The woman, whom I had talked to last night, was standing next to the chair gesturing for me to come over and sit down.
I eventually realised; I was a suspect in court, and my whole life depended on one of the 2 words: 'guilty' or 'innocent'.