Sever

The air in the cell is thick with the smell of despair and stale espresso. I trace the words "Yor fuct" etched into the wall, a silent testament to lives broken by this system. The rhythmic tap-tap of boots outside grows louder, then falters, replaced by a shuffle. The chime of the cell lock echoes, a sound that always tightens my gut.

The metal door clangs open, revealing silhouettes against the harsh fluorescent light. Rotund uniforms and cone-shaped hats – the police. Tired and dizzy from pacing, I sway on the wooden bench as they lead me out into the blinding sunlight atop steep marble steps.

My hands are cuffed, rubbing at my wrists, a constant reminder of where I am. We descend towards a line of police cars, my ill-fitting, musty suit a stark contrast to my father's starched grey one, waiting on the pavement. Why he had to look his best for this, I'll never understand.