Warming Up

By: Stephanie Gerlach

A voice. One lonely, solitary voice was rattling around inside her head. It
bounced chaotically against her skull, attempting to get out. Her head was a prison,
made of steel wires and iron bars with shackled memories thrown haphazardly within.
The voice was desperate; the pain as palpable as that of a broken bone. But she was
strong, and she would not succumb to the voice. It would not escape through
unguarded lips or careless eyes that always revealed more than they should.

A door clicked open to her right, and a sharply dressed man came strutting in
with a thick manila file. She remained seated, conscious that any movement she made
could be seen as a threat. Her hands were beginning to ache under the table where
they were cuffed, but she refused to stretch them out. Instead she stared straight
ahead, her eyes barely blinking, lungs barely breathing. Unsurprisingly, she saw her
own stony expression reflected back from the two-­way glass embedded in the wall.
She knew there were countless eyes on the other side of that glass, watching her like a
caged animal. It was ironic, since she had never felt more free. The voice subdued
momentarily at the thought of being watched before jumping back into the assault with
renewed purpose.

A throat cleared in front of her and her eyes flickered uncertainly away from the
glass. The man seated across the table from her was an intriguing specimen. His
slightly balding hairline and flushed cheeks hinted at a nervous disposition while his
high ­end clothes suggested he was well ­off. Most likely, he was the son of some
big­-shot cop who had expected his son to follow in his footsteps, but had proven to be
surprisingly inept. He appeared to be in his late twenties, and was a decently attractive
man. She realized that, had they met under different circumstances, they probably
would have been friends. The voice continued to strain against her powerful restraints,
and she felt the onset of a migraine.

The man cleared his throat again, most likely conducting his own silent, mental
evaluation before he flipped open the folder with a flourish. “Hello,” he said, his voice a
deep, gravelly rumble. “My name is Derek Caster. You must be Hannah?” His voice,
raised at the end of his statement, made it a question of mock innocence rather than
actual curiosity. Hannah remained immobile.

“You are 27 years old and have rarely appeared within our databases. That’s
quite a feat these days.” He smiled an impish grin that revealed two small dimples, one
on each cheek. “A lot has changed the past couple of days, hasn’t it?”

The voice was revitalized by his casual nature and Hannah began to feel a
pulsing throb in her forehead. She refused to acknowledge Derek and remained
lock-­jawed. A cop was nothing if not relentless and Derek seemed to embrace the
stereotype.

“I’m going to show you some pictures, Hannah. They’re pretty gruesome.” He
shuddered almost imperceptibly before sliding a few giant photographs across the table
towards her. Hannah told herself not to look, but her eyes betrayed her and glanced
down to see the shots.

A cacophony of screaming echoed inside her head when she registered the
pictures in front of her. There was blood everywhere, crimson and scarlet mixing in
unfathomable ways, staining her mind with death. Her hands started to tremble beneath
the table and she bit her lip to hold back the hysteria. They’re fake she told herself.
They’re not real. The voice, for once, was silent. She looked up and found Derek
watching her, gauging her reaction. She knew her eyes must be wild with emotion, but
were they the right emotions to let her walk out of the room without cuffs?

“Do you recognize who that is?” Derek asked, his head cocked to the right with
actual curiosity this time.

Hannah shook her head quickly, and her brain seemed to rattle with the
movement. The rattling brought the voice out of its stupor, but it seemed more subdued
than before.

“Hannah, this picture was taken three days ago at your old house,” Derek stated.
Hannah squeezed her eyes shut and attempted to summon tears. While her eyes were
still closed, Derek whispered, “The woman in the picture was your mother.” A single tear
managed to slide out of Hannah’s eye and slowly dribbled down her cheek.

The voice was at the forefront of her thoughts now, screaming the same three
words over and over again, for the umpteenth time that day. The voice reminded her of
home and childhood and good memories, but now it was linked to the pictures in front of
her, a burden she would have to carry for the rest of her life.

The voice was her mother’s.

And it was screaming, “You killed me!”

Hannah took a deep breath and mentally forced the voice back into her
subconscious for the time being. It had all gone so wrong, so terribly wrong that nothing
could have prevented the inevitable. But this could be prevented. Hannah knew that she
could still walk out the door as a free woman if she played her cards right.

“Hannah, we know you were there. Your DNA was on your mother’s hands. You
attacked her, but she fought back. If you would just cooperate then we could— ”

“Stop!” Hannah cried, her voice seeming raw after hours of silence. She couldn’t
let him alter her reality if she wanted to leave freely.

Hannah sucked in a shaky breath, fixed her eyes on the table, and started from
the beginning of a well ­rehearsed story. “My mother was an alcoholic for ten years
before she had me, and being pregnant was the longest time she’d ever been sober.
The doctor told her it was either my health or her habit, and surprisingly she chose me.
The choice didn’t last long, though.” She paused, glancing up through her eyelashes to
check that Derek was listening to her story. His eyes were riveted on her face, and she
hurriedly glanced back down.

“Three weeks after I was born, my father died in a car accident. My mother was
devastated, and she thought that alcohol was her only friend. I grew up in a rundown
house that not even the rats wanted to inhabit. My mother’s paycheck was for the
booze and the booze was for her sadness. When I turned eight the paychecks stopped
coming altogether and my mother locked herself in her bedroom. I learned how to work
odd jobs and make money so that we didn’t starve to death. My days revolved around
my mother drowning herself in alcohol. I lived in Hell for ten interminable years and
when I reached the right age, I left.”

Hannah paused, allowing herself to calm the anger that the story was creating
inside of her. She hated remembering this, let alone sharing it with someone else.
Nonetheless, she trudged on.

“I didn’t have money for college, so I turned to a more...Inspired line of work.
Fortunately, I made enough money to survive, but I was never more than 50 dollars
from bankruptcy. One day out of the blue, four days ago to be exact, my mother called
me. She said she needed to see me and that is was urgent. I told her that I would meet
her for dinner at her house.

“When I arrived, the stench nearly knocked me off my feet. It was nauseating,
that smell of vomit, alcohol, and human filth. I’m sure you smelled it when you took
those pictures.” She nodded towards the file and watched Derek squirm uncomfortably.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“Being a woman of my word, I entered the house only to find my mother in an
angry, drunken fit. She attacked me with a vengeance I’ve never seen in her before.”
The first lie slipped in without a hitch. “Her hands clamped around my throat and she
tried to strangle me.” Hannah paused and extended her neck so that the hand-­shaped
bruises were clearly visible. “In defense, I grabbed the nearest object and swung at her
head with all my strength. I never intended to kill her, only get her off of me.” Her
second lie fell into place much easier than the first. “I never got to know what she
wanted to tell me.”

Derek was unabashedly staring at Hannah now, shock written clearly all over his
face. He stood abruptly and exited the room to conference with his fellow officers.
Hannah waited patiently, hoping that her story was enough.

Two hours and one cup of coffee later, Hannah was a free woman, standing on
the sidewalk in front of the station in the biting wind. She smiled to herself, tugging up
the collar of her coat. The voice was silent. Despite the cold, she was just getting
warmed up.