Young Writers Society

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm Knight Hardy here on a mission to ensure that all works on YWS has at least two reviews. You will probably never see this but....Imma do this anyway.

Anyway let's get right to it,

“Marshal!”The voice lingered.

Even hours after it was released in one dynamic breath, he was currently replaying the twisted and shrill memory in his mind while locked within the four bare walls of the interrogation room. His shaking hands were laced together on top of the metal table, dirt and dried blood visible on his knuckles and imbedded in his fingernails. His reflection was screaming at him in the one-way mirror but he couldn't bare to look himself in the eye, he let them down. He let them all down. While drowning there in his own self pity, Marshal heard the door to the small, white room open and shut simultaneously. Looking up, Marshal saw the two detectives that were present during his failed missing person's report. One, he had gotten to know more directly than the other. “Marshal.” The familiar one whispered, feeling as if he had let the boy down. Marshal flinched at his name, the last time he had heard it was when she was desperately screaming for him, before she was gone. “Mr. Cunning” it was the other detective who spoke, evening a few papers in his grasp on the table, sending vibrations into Marshal's laced hands. He sluggishly moved them to his lap and with great effort looked up at the two men. The young Detective that he grown to respect didn't look much better than he did. His hair disheveled, his clothes damp and dirty and a wan look in his blue eyes. Marshal looked away then, there was an iniquitous feeling in the core of his chest, he had hurt so many people. “Detective St. James over here thinks you can explain, so there's you chance boy, talk.” The older man stared down his long nose at Marshal, the skeptical look didn't help his current mood, he felt sick, like he would vomit at any moment, his head throbbed remembering the situation, when exactly everything fell apart, where he knew he became the biggest moron on the planet. The heavy set officer grunted in a subtle attempt to show his impatience. It made Marshal grow more uncomfortable. “Just tell us everything.” Vincent St. James whispered again, softly encouraging the boy to talk. “Where should I start?” Quietly, Marshal flinched at his own words, coming out, sounding a lot louder than above a whisper. “The beginning would be nice” The other detective, Detective Wallas scoffed, sounding more amused then curious as to what possibly could come out of the sixteen year old's mouth. “Okay, so it all started a few weeks ago-” Marshal began.