Casual clothes, really. Jeans and a white shirt. Someone must have brought a change of clothes. She wasn’t aware this was allowed. Then again, what does she care? Secretly, she wanted to see him in that orange jumpsuit, with numbers stamped to his back, identifying him as a criminal, a convict, wrong.
      He’s already sitting in the room. A man in blue uniform is behind the chair, standing by the wall at full attention. She notices the badge on his chest. She notices the polished shoes. She notices the young and fresh face. She notices the gun, strapped down in its holster. She wonders if he would react. What if she stepped over to that young man, took his gun, and fired on the monster? Would the men and women in blue react? Would they say it was suicide? Would they say it was murder? Or would they say it was self-defence?
She stands beside her escort—an ex who she never thought would care about any of this. She’s been wrong about Kym many times before.
      Two men step into the room. One is short, squat, and sweating like an over-cooked pig. His head glows under the overhead lights, beads of sweat forming over the stretched skin and trickling down his face and neck. What the hell has he got to be sweating over? His suit is rumpled and very over-worn. He’s got a greyish-white shirt under his grey jacket. The rust and white striped tie he wears is too short and doesn’t help the ensemble at all—his shirt buttons are still visibly straining against the pull of the ramshackle fabric. His pants are a dark grey—two shades darker than his jacket. There’s a stain at mid-thigh, about the size of two quarters. Lovely!
      “Hey,” he says to her, dropping some papers on the table and taking the empty chair to the monster’s left. “How’s it goin’, kid?” He asks the question without so much as looking up at her.
The second man stands a little behind her for a minute or two. He stares down at the monster. He’s got a very Roman-esque profile. Strong nose. Square and straight jaw, always very cleanly shaved. His grey hair is also very well kept—combed back a little with a hint of gel. His suit is black. He hasn’t got a tie on, though. His jacket is clean and crisp. His pants match the jacket perfectly. His shoes shine in the light of the room. His shirt is white—stark white—and there isn’t a single wrinkle anywhere on it.
      He sits down to her left—the monster’s right. “How are you doing?” He speaks softly, with kindness.
      “Fine,” she answers through gritted teeth, staring at the monster in the cuffs and shackles.
      “Last time, hun,” says the Roman softly. “Promise.”
      Kym almost growls, “Fucking better be.”
      “Take a seat,” says Stumpy, wiping his bald head with the back of his sleeve.
      She takes her seat. Kym stands behind her, placing both hands on her ex’s shoulders, squeezing gently—very out of character, really. It’s as though Kym’s saying, “Don’t worry. I’m here. You’re safe.”
      The Roman looks to the monster and the woman. “You both know why you’re here.”
      She nods, her jaw clenched and her eyes not blinking.
      The monster nods and sighs.
      “All right then,” continues the Roman, leafing through some of the papers on the table. He looks up and meets Stumpy’s eyes, “Are you ready to get this finished?” There is a definite edge in the Roman’s voice, as though he despises being here in this room.
      Stumpy nods and shrugs, “Yeah, whatever.” Indifference in this man’s eyes and tone.
      The Roman sighs and stretches a little. His jacket gets caught on the arm of this chair, revealing the handgun securely trapped in the holster against his side.
      “Detective,” says Stumpy, “you have the recorder, right?”
      The Roman sighs and points to a place maybe eighteen inches up and to the right of Stumpy’s elbow. “Right there, Gill.”
      “It’s Crown Attorney, detective,” says Stumpy, puffing out his chest and making a show of his briefcase and visitor Id.
      Kym snarls at this point, “Shut up and get this over with you dickhe—”
      She’s interrupted by the Monster’s soft and disgusting sob. He looks at the woman and sighs, “I’m so sorry about all this.”
“Shut your fucking mouth you piece of shit!” Kym shouts the words, her hands clench around her ex’s shoulders. The cinder bloc-like muscles almost relax a little.
      The Roman speaks in a calm voice to her, “Please Ms. We’ll handle this.” Kym opens her mouth to say something else but the Roman turns to the Monster, “If you say one more word without having been told to speak, you will find yourself out of that lovely little personal cell and in with all the others. Got it?” His voice is dark, threatening, and all-too-serious.
      Stumpy looks up, “Detective, that is a threat.”
      Kym looks to stumpy, “I didn’t hear him say anything.” She looks to the police office standing over at the wall, “Did you hear anything?” The young man shakes his head ‘no’.
      The monster sighs and looks down at his hands, avoiding the woman’s eyes.
      “Now,” says the Roman, pushing the play button on the recorder. “Let’s get this over with.”
      The questioning begins. It lasts two hours. It should have lasted three of four. But it didn’t.
      The woman, halfway through one of the Monster’s teary answers, interrupted him. “Why did you do any of this?”
      The room fell silent. He looked at her and sighed. “I told you that answer.” His voice is small and she almost believes that he feels bad—but she knows him too well to fall for such a ploy.
      She repeats herself, “Why did you keep doing it?”
      He sighs and meets her eyes—she suddenly wants to tear the skin from her bones. “Because I didn’t think it would hurt you this badly.”
Kym says something angry and hateful. The woman doesn’t hear the words. “You knew what it was doing to me. Why did you keep doing it?”
      He repeats the same answer.
      “You’re lying. You’re fucked now. Why don’t you just answer it?” she says again, her jaw clenches tighter now, her knuckles are white under the table.
      He leans forward, his real self coming-out suddenly. There’s a grin on his face, and almost glee in his expression. “You never complained about it.”
      Her face drops. She was not expecting that. At least, she was not expecting it to smash through her like this. It’s as though the floor has opened beneath her feet. Everything suddenly slams through her mind. Her nerves ignite. Her bones feel as though they’re being shattered again.
      Something isn’t right. Everyone in the room sees it. Kym is the only one who reacts. She lunges for a garbage can, spins her friend’s chair, and says nothing as the young woman is violently sick.
      A few minutes pass and the woman tries to catch her breath. Kym glowers at the Monster.
      “She asked,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a smile on his face.
      Kym says nothing. She helps her friend to stand, whispers softly in the other’s ear. “We’re done,” she says to the room.
      Stumpy jumps up, “We’re not done! We’ve still got more questions to do through. We—”
      The Roman stands slowly, “Take her home. We’re done for tonight.”
      Kym looks him in the eye. “No. You’re done for good. She’s not coming back here. If you need her to come here, you can lie on your fucking statements. She’s not coming back here.” Kym looks to the Monster and almost hisses the words, “If I ever see you again.” She kicks the table and the recorder falls to the floor, the tape popping out, “I’ll run you down in the street.”
      Stumpy is now almost hopping around trying to figure out how to stop this madwoman from pulling his star witness—his only witness—from the room. The Roman says nothing as he opens the door for them both. “Thanks for coming in,” he says, his voice apologetic.
      They leave the station and hop into a cab. Kym—still very much out of character—sighs and hugs her friend. “It’s done, okay?”
      “They still need—”
      “No. It’s done. You’re not going back there.”
      “Kym, they still—”
      Kym sighs, “We didn’t work out very well. I know I’m to blame for that entire train wreck. But I’m not about to let that fuck screw you up again. You’re not going back there. They’ve got everything they need. They’ve got all their reaction bullshit things. You’re done. You’re not going back. And that’s the end of the discussion.”
      “It’s not that simple—”
      “I know it’s not that simple. But it’s too bad. If you so much as answer a phone call from any of those people, I will kick your ass seven ways from Sunday.” She sighs and hugs her friend again. “I know I’m not her, but I do care about you. All right? Just don’t come back here, hun. I don’t want to see you hurt anymore.”