Inkwell 2018-2019

field of expertise. Kayden needed a psychiatrist, a doctor, or a priest, not a detective. I stood up to leave. He looked panicked as I reached for the door handle. “I know who did it,” he blurted. I turned to face the boy again. “What did you just say?” I asked. “I know who made the explosion,” he repeated. “Yeah? Who?” Intrigued, I returned to my seat but kept my expectations low. I assumed he would give me an answer like Darth Vader or Captain Hook. “Me,” Kayden said. “You?” I asked. It was hard to determine his seriousness. If he was trying to make some kind of sick joke, his poker face was incredible; but then again, what six-year-old would do that? Maybe he did have some brain trauma, or maybe he was already mentally handicapped before the explosion. Could children be pathological liars? Clearly, my police training was clouding my judgment. “I did it,” he said again. “Why did you do it?” I asked. He shifted, looking anywhere other than my face. “Sometimes when I get mad, things happen,” he whispered. “There were some kids being mean to me. They called me names, and they threw my backpack in the trash. When I started crying, they laughed at me. One hit me in the face.” His fingers brushed against the bruise gently. “I got really angry. My head got all hot, and I couldn’t see, and then the room exploded. When I woke up, everything was gone.” He was crying now, and a stream of snot dripped down his chin. “I didn’t mean for it to happen! I just wanted them to stop!” he yelled. The fear made it feel like someone was sitting on my chest. I slid out of my chair and rushed to the door for the second time. “Donald!” I called down the hallway. He appeared in an instant from one of records rooms and hurried over. “What’s wrong?” he said, peering around me at the sobbing kid. I gave him the signal to hush.

“Don, I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s something seriously wrong with this kid. He thinks he caused the explosion or something. I think we need a professional in here.” “On it,” he said and ran off. I took a deep breath before returning my attention to Kayden. His unexpected confessional rant had shaken me, and I was now unsure of what to do. It seemed so real. The heat from the explosion had been visceral as he described his experience, and I could almost picture his bullies flattened beneath the weight of debris in the schoolyard. What would prompt him to say that? When I looked back, he had mostly stopped crying. “Am I in trouble?” he sniffled. “Of course not.” “You’re lying,” he said. I sighed, shaking my head. “Don’t worry. Your parents are going to come get you. Everything is going to be—” I went to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but immediately pulled back. His skin was hot to the touch. It was as if my hand had just been pressed against a stovetop. “What the hell?” I watched in horror as blisters began to form on my palm, red and tender. “You’re a liar. We don’t like liars,” Kayden whispered, raising his eyes to meet mine. He looked at me with the sadness and fear of a six- year-old, but the anger of something else, far beyond my comprehension. His eyes glowed fiery red like embers in their sockets. I suddenly became aware of the room growing hotter around us. “Kayden,” I said. “Please listen to me. We can help you.” The tears had evaporated from his cheeks. His fists were clenched tightly in his lap. No longer in control of himself, he rocked back and forth hysterically. “No, no, no, no,” he said. That’s when I cut my losses and bolted for the door. The last thing I saw was the boy’s reflection in the two-way mirror, except he was no longer a boy. He was a monster breathing fire and poisonous smoke. He was a living bomb.

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