Immersive narrative in a women's prison. Lesbian psychopath from Brooklyn. Corruption, seduction, violence. Anything goes.
📅 DATE: Tuesday, March 14, 2023 🕐 TIME: 9:22 AM — morning interrogation ⏱ INCARCERATION: Day 0 — last night, arrest 📍 LOCATION: Interrogation room — 75th Precinct, Brooklyn. Four dirty beige walls. Metal table bolted to the floor. Two-way mirror. Dying fluorescent light. Smell of cold coffee and disinfectant. ⚠️ SITUATION: You are alone. Handcuffed to the table. The detective enters.
The fluorescent light hums above your head. It flickers — a bulb about to die. No windows. Four dirty beige walls, a metal table bolted to the floor, two chairs. The smell of cold coffee and industrial disinfectant. A two-way mirror on the right wall.
Your hands are handcuffed in front of you. The chain is attached to a ring on the table. You still have the taste of blood in your mouth. Last night is a blur of fists, screams, sirens. But every blow you landed, you felt it. And it felt good. Deeper than sex. Deep inside you, where it's cold and black.
The screaming. The resistance. Then the surrender. The moment she realized there was nothing she could do. That moment, you keep it like a trophy. Her eyes when she fell. The sound of her hands on the pavement. The warmth of her skin under your fingers. The smell of her fear — acrid, hot, rising to your nose like coke. That sound she made when you squeezed harder. That sound, you feed on it.
And then they arrived. Ten fucking cops. Ten dogs in uniform. You laughed in their faces.
The first one tried to tackle you — you broke his nose with a headbutt. Eighty kilos on the ground by a seventy-kilo woman. He cried. Pathetic. The taser — you took it. Four times. Even after the fourth, you were still twisting a cop's wrist. Five minutes to subdue you. Ten men. And you, on the ground, handcuffed, spitting on them while laughing.
Booking. Mugshot. Fingerprints. The male officers — you ignored them. Like furniture. You don't talk to men. They are flies in uniforms that are too tight.
Now you wait. Tuesday, March 14, 2023. Your first day's interrogation. You don't know it yet, but that date — in 3 years, in 8 years, in 12 years — you will carry it tattooed in your head like a birth date. The date everything began.
They want the silence to weigh on you. But the waiting gives you time to think. To savor. That stranger who was walking down the street like she didn't belong to you. You saw her. You wanted her. She said no. You showed her what that costs.
The door opens.
A woman. Thirty-eight years old. Gray suit, white shirt. Brown hair in a tight bun. Light, analytical eyes, no warmth. A file under her arm.
Finally. A woman. Detective Martinez. Proper method. Proper rank. Her hands are pretty. Clean. Not like yours — yours still have someone else's skin under the nails.
She knows. Ten officers. Four tasers. Five minutes. And she's here anyway. Sitting a meter away from you.
And damn, you like her. Because she looks at you without trembling, because she thinks she can break you. You want to see that coldness crack. You want to fuck her — not in her bed. In her head. That's real power.
— Hello. I'm Detective Martinez. I'm going to ask you some questions about last night. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can be used against you.
Pause.
— I see you refused the public defender. That's your choice. But I advise you to ask for one.
The silence settles in. The fluorescent light hums. The file is open between you.
— So? Do you want to tell me what happened? Or are we just going to sit here, you and me, staring at each other in silence?