Vanity. Ares

looking face. I did not know what to say, I
assumed it was said rhetorically and therefore said
nothing, indifferent to how I should react. The
officer looked at me with an arched neck as if I
had missed my lines and I was supposed to shout:
"I'm bloody innocent, you son of a bitch!" or
something ridiculous like that. I did nothing of the
sort and a few others joined the young officer, like
a crowd, in arching their neck's and squinting
their eyes as if I was unusual and they wondered
of the portrait of me. They then lead me to a room
where they took finger prints and pictures of my
face, and then into a cold cell, smelling of a
demise; four walls, noise (not God), the smell of
bed changes that emphasised that I was just a
statistic, and a stainless steel metal toilet with the
remains of un-flushed faeces.
Sat in the prison cell, I remember thinking
quite a lot about the Burrito, funnily enough that
was the first thing that hit me when the prison cell
door closed and I looked around the cold smell of
failure and doubted that I would get to that
Burrito place; I knew as much. I was locked up,
but I held that I was not guilty and once I
explained the sensitive nature of the provocation I
would perhaps be free. A Little time passed and
an officer knocked, then opened the door and led
me to an interview room that I would frequent
quite a few times that night. An officer then asked
if I wanted a Lawyer and I said: “I will not speak
without one.” Because I knew from my time spent
in the system years before that each word was
paramount, I knew this.
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