I killed my wife last night.

At least that’s what they told me, the two detectives wearing slick suits and circling the interrogation room like sharks waiting for the slightest hint of blood. Their suits were a black that was both shiny and dull, with silver ties and pitch perfect white shirts that all complimented their pitch perfect black suits. They were perfect in every way.

“You killed her…”

“I didn’t kill her. I wasn’t even there,” I said coolly. They couldn’t get inside of me if it wasn’t true. And it wasn’t true.

“Listen, I don’t want to do this, because we’re just wasting time,” said the detective with a grin that became a smile that became something darker, full of an evil that made me shudder. “You killed her last night at around ten o’clock with the gun that you kept in your sock drawer…underneath all of those fucking socks.”

“I didn’t kill her. You know that. You know I wasn’t even at my house. I was at the party,” I said with a professional attitude and professional tone. “I was with my friend Andrew Kenshaw. Call him, ask him. It’s the truth. I am innocent. So please stop doing this. Do me a favor and go out and catch the man who killed my wife, please.”

“We called him, Jon. You weren’t at the party that late. According to Andrew, you left the party a little before nine. Your wife was murdered about an hour later than that. It took, what, a half an hour to get home? Can you do the math?”

“No. I didn’t kill my wife. It wasn’t me. I went home and she was dead. There was blood everywhere and I kneeled down next to her and I started to cry and I called the police and she was dead and there was nothing I could do.” I was starting to get tired of their game. “She had died before I got home. There was nothing I could do.”

“No, she wasn’t”

“Yes, she fucking was. She was dead. She died. I saw her dead in our home.” I was becoming angry. I knew what was true and what wasn’t. I knew what was real. They were playing tricks, cop tricks, and I wasn’t going to trip over the cord and find myself in prison for the rest of my life for a crime I didn’t commit.

“Okay Jon, if this is what we’re going to do, then I’m going to play out the entire scene for you, and you’re just going to nod your head and confirm that all I’ve said is true.

“You were at the party with Maggie and you both were all dressed up because it meant a big promotion for you, and Derek, your boss, was going to announce it. But he didn’t. He gave it to Stewart, and you fucking hated Stewart. So you were angry. You were angry at your boss, at Stewart, at everyone. So you left the party early and angry and maybe a little drunk and you hated your wife because she looked too good and you thought she was probably cheating on you.” He reached into his suit’s pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“So you let that marinate in your head and you convinced yourself that there was only one solution. You went upstairs to your bedroom while Maggie put on some coffee and turned on the television. You changed, sifted through the sock drawer, found the pistol. Then you sifted through the closet, found the bullets you had bought years ago when you were young and stupid. Unfortunately, you never got smart enough to throw the fucking gun away. Shame. So you loaded it, you went downstairs, you saw your wife looking sexy and kind, offering you coffee. You held the gun tightly in the right pocket of your loose pajama pants. She tried to talk to you, but before she could speak, you pulled out the pistol and shot her in the stomach, only wounding her so she screamed in pain.”

The detective leaned closer, menacing. “This scream made you realize the severity of your actions, so you shot her in the face to make the screaming stop. Then you watched the blood stream out of the back of her head and you became absorbed in your sin. You put the pistol to your own head…and fired. And you died with your wife, in your house…last night.”

The room became smaller, and I felt the white walls and their brightness crashing around me.

“No, no, no, no. I didn’t kill my wife. I didn’t kill my wife…”

“Yes, you did.”

I broke down in tears and fell onto the ceramic white floor surrounded by white walls and a white ceiling. I cried and my tears were red and fluorescent and there was nothing else I could do.

“I killed her because I hated her. I always hated her. I always did.”

I always did.

“Where am I?” I asked with a fear that the detective seemed to wallow in.

“Well, Jon, that doesn’t seem to matter now, does it? I’m going to go get a cup of coffee. I’ll be back in five minutes and we’ll do this all over again. And after that, we’ll do it again. Five minutes to eternity. No more, no less,” he said with a laugh that echoed around the creeping walls.