Blame

I looked back into his eyes, the eyes of my accuser, to see with what emotion is he doing this with. To my surprise (well not really), his eyes were cold, calculating, and unwavering. He was not guilty about the accusation he brought upon me. Or perhaps, he really believed that this was the truth? No, one more look into his icy cold eyes told me that he planned this, wanted this, for whatever unknown, selfish reasons he might have. He was looking at me with bemused and triumphant eyes. But why? This was our first meeting, so far as I can recall…

“Miss…” the police officer’s voice faded into nothingness as I concentrated my gaze at my accuser, looking back with equal coldness, equal depth and mystery, and a defiance equivalent to his triumph. Startled by my sudden quiet rebellion, he glared at me with a piercing coldness as well as hatred.

“Miss Harlem, are you listening to me?”
“Ah… Yes, sorry about that…”
“Miss Harlem, I’m terribly sorry about this, but as the main suspect in the death of our chief, you must be taken in…”
“One request, I would like a one-week delay on my arrest. Within that one week, I will attempt to find evidence that I didn’t commit the crime. If I can find it, we will go to court, if not, I will come to the station myself.”

“And how can we be sure that you won’t run away brat?”
“Because,” I narrowed by eyes at my accuser, “If I really wanted to run away, I could do so right now, and none of you could stop me. My bloodline ensures that.”
“… Very well Miss Harlem, I will report to the new chief about this, and please take care of yourself…”
“I will.”