The dimly lit interrogation room echoed with the weight of the unfolding drama, a dance between the accused and the relentless police officer. The worn-out man, clad in ragged clothes with disheveled blonde hair, seemed to play the role of an innocent victim, denying any involvement in the string of homicides. Across from him, the officer, determined and exhausted, sought the truth hidden within the complex layers of his mind.
The man's futile attempts to break free from his restraints led to a thud, the sound of the metal handcuffs hitting the cold concrete floor. Deny, deny, deny – his mantra throughout six hours of relentless questioning. The officer knew this game well, an intellectual battle where the suspect danced around the truth, leaving breadcrumbs for her to follow.
A moment of silence settled between them, the man staring blankly at the wall, seemingly lost in thought. Then, an unexpected question hung in the air, breaking the silence like a discordant note in a symphony.
“If I were to ask you, officer, who exactly am I, how would you answer?”
The officer's brow furrowed, bewildered by the sudden shift in tone. But fatigue had settled in, and she responded with straightforward simplicity, "You are Mark Twinsbourgh, and you are currently a suspect in multiple accounts of homicide."
The man's eyes met hers, and with an amused grin, he continued his enigmatic dance. "And why is that, and why accuse me?"
The officer scoffed, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Why is that – You must be joking! All evidence leads back to YOU, Twinsbourgh. Each body had a similar theme, a similar pattern. We were able to track you down by location, the bodies deliberately lead to your residence as if you were playing a game; as if you wanted us to find you. Each body left with your signature marking, a carved cross drawn to the cheek of the victims. So you tell me, Twinsbourgh, why is that? What were you hoping to achieve? Why set yourself up the way that you have?"
In a sudden turn, the man shifted his focus, his demeanor changing from defiance to something more sinister. A revelation hung in the air, an admission that sent shivers down the officer's spine.
"I was bored, officer. You understand, don’t you? Boredom is quite a troublesome feeling. But please, you have to admit half of those civilians did nothing to aid society, and you know it. They needed to perish to the land of the dead, and I was given the assignment to do so. I needed to cleanse this world from such disgusting and useless existences."
The officer was paralyzed, grappling with the shock of his admission. Mark Twinsbourgh, the man she had relentlessly pursued, had confessed to being the notorious Carver of 98th Street. The pieces seemed to fall into place, but an unsettling feeling lingered.
His tone, his demeanor – they were different. A whirlwind of emotions swept through the room as the officer struggled to comprehend the abrupt change. Fear, confusion, and a touch of amusement danced in Mark's eyes, leaving the officer on the verge of sickness.
The officer attempted to regain control, her voice shaky, "Sir…do you realize what you have j-"
But she faltered as Mark's eyes took on a glossy, distant look. The grin disappeared, replaced by an innocence that shattered the officer's understanding of the situation.
“Um…excuse me…s-sorry, but who are you? What’s going on?” a child's voice broke through.
Dread engulfed the officer as the realization hit – Mark Twinsbourgh wasn’t one person; he was several.
In her author's note, the writer emphasized their intention to explore the psychological complexity without stigmatizing Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). The story painted a vivid picture of the interrogation's intensity, raising questions about identity, guilt, and the thin line between sanity and madness.