ALETHEIA [ON GOING]

2. Spy

What's your favourite song?

Song: 'Telephones' by Vacations

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Police cars suck.

I sit in the front of the police car, hearing the officer talking but not really listening, as I look out the window as I fiddle with the locket around my neck. I can see her give me pitying looks when she thinks I'm not looking, but I see them anyway.

Buildings and people blur past as the car drives past them, as small droplets start to hit the windshield and the windows, and I watch as they fall, just like tears. I just killed people. Not only one person, but two. I ended their lives, and they'll never get to live again.

Although, I wouldn't call drinking until you can't remember what happened the next day and betting all of your money on games you don't win exactly 'living'.

The rain starts to fall faster, as the car finally comes to a stop outside of the local police station. The officer pulls her jacket over herself before she opens and closes the door, before coming over to my side and opening the door for me.

"Come on, hurry inside or you'll get drenched!" She says as she quickens her pace, entering the police station and stands at the door as she hurries me inside. Warmth hits me as soon as I enter, and the officer leads me to a small desk in the corner of the room, behind which the lady looks me up and down as she pushes the glasses back up her nose.

She looks down at the paperwork in her hands, and says, "Hello, My name is Emily Sanchez and I'll be your case worker. Due to your current," she pauses, "Situation, you will have to stay here for a while until we figure out if you will be put into foster care or not."

"Let's see. Your name is Angelina Marina Nyx Cattivo, female, 17 years of age, 5 foot 3, and you have been living with your aunt Rosie Adams for the past 17 years, and her and her husband Jake Adams passed away in a house fire an hour ago. Correct?"

"Yes." I sniffle, as the officer looks at me with pity. Keep looking at me like that and I'll slap it right off.

"I'm sorry for your loss." she says with a bored tone. Bullshit. "We will run a couple of DNA tests to see if you have any family members that are willing to take you in, and if not, i'm afraid you'll have to go into the foster system." I groan. This is a waste of my time. "You might aswell put me in foster care now, my parents died when I was four."

"That may be the case, but we have to check anyway. You have to take a blood sample, and then it will take a couple hours for the results to come back, okay?"

I roll my eyes and nod. I fucking hate needles.

After many tries and two people later, she finally sticks the needle in, and I hiss.

Telling me to sit and wait, she and the officer walk away, presumably to go and test it. After about five minutes, I get bored. I look on her desk, and see it had a couple black sharpies, a few hair ties and some basic office supplies.

I quickly stand up and move to the seat in front of the desk and open the drawers. In the first drawer, it has a dozen bobby pins, more hair ties, a tube of concealer which looked a bit darker than my skin colour but would still work nonetheless, and a file with my name on the front.