Hi readers! This is the beginning of a new story about a girl… who wants to be taken seriously for her crimes, and when she gets charged for murder, she has to decide whether to admit to it so as to be taken seriously for once, or to deny it and prevent herself from getting severely punished. If she denies the charge and is still found guilty, however, she could be in even more trouble.
The police officer puts his hands on his head and sighs. He drops the papers onto the desk. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he tells me, his tone condescending.
“What do you mean?” I ask him. I keep the mask on. Innocent. Sweet. Underestimated.
“We’ve put you in juvie-” he pauses to count on his fingers.
“Seven times,” I inform him, a smile plastered onto my face. Polite. Helpful. Ladylike.
“Seven times, and yet this is the first time you’ve ever done something like this. It’s supposed to help you heal, you know. Get better. Not commit crimes.”
“I know,” I say sadly. Like I care that he’s disappointed.
“What provoked you to do something so extreme?” he asks. “I thought you were better now. A girl shouldn’t be breaking laws, let alone breaking this law.”
My eyebrows crease out of genuine confusion. “What?”
“You know what.”
“I don’t…” I say softly.
He sighs and picks up the paper. “You want to know what you’re being charged for? You’re really pretending like you don’t know?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Arson, shoplifting, vandalism…”
I nod after each charge. He continues. “Speeding, driving under the influence, taking illegal drugs, murder-”
“MURDER?” I interrupt. I can’t help it.
He looks at me with raised eyebrows. “You want to deny it?”
I’m about to say yes, of course, because that’s a bigger charge than anything I’ve ever done before, when I realize something. He’s finally seeing me as a criminal, as someone who needs to be taken seriously, instead of a naive little girl.
But I don’t know if I want to take that bullet. I could be put in jail for a lifetime.
I have to decide now. Should I shoot myself in the foot and finally get treated the same as a man would? Or should I deny it and be laughed at by people who believe that a teenage girl is too weak, too fragile, too feminine, to do something so serious?
I also don’t know what evidence they have that I did it.
“Can I have some time to think about it?” I ask, crossing my fingers.
“Think about what?”
“Whether I want to deny it.”
He considers this, then figures I’m not enough of a threat, even with the belief that I’ve literally murdered someone. “Fine,” he tells me. “You get 24 hours.”
“Thank you,” I breathe out.
“We’re separating you from the rest of the jail. We don’t want any more blood on our hands. You get a special room. Extra locks.”
My lips curl up at his insinuation that I have both the capability and morality to do something like that. He’s not underestimating me. Not this time.
He sees me as more than a girl now.
He sees me as a murderer.