THE CONFESSION

 

Mary Jane didn't remember the walk to the station or the weight of the heavy glass door as she pushed it open. She existed only in the "now," anchored by a singular, jagged necessity: she had to go on record before she could let go.

The detective ushered her into a sterile box of a room. It smelled of stale coffee and industrial floor wax. Inside, a junior officer sat poised with a pen, his face a mask of practiced indifference. A tape recorder sat between them, its reels spinning with a faint, rhythmic hiss.

"State your name for the record," the detective said, leaning back. "And tell us why you’ve requested this interview."

"My name is Mary Jane," she said, her voice sounding like dry leaves skittering on pavement. **"I would like to report my murder. It was committed by my boyfriend, today, in our apartment on Holland Street."**

The detective’s pen stopped mid-air. He exchanged a glance with the junior officer—a look that wavered between annoyance and pity. "You’re saying you witnessed a murder? And you're claiming the victim... was you?"

Mary Jane didn't blink. "I’m saying he is going to kill me. He’s standing behind me right now in the kitchen. He’s holding a crowbar. He’s going to swing it into the back of my skull until I stop moving. It happens at 1:00 PM."

The detective sighed, the sound of a man whose patience had hit its limit. "So, you’re telling us about a 'future' murder? Look, lady, if you’re being threatened, we can file a restraining order, but you can’t report a crime that hasn’t happened yet. This isn't a psychic hotline."

"It has happened," Mary insisted, her eyes fixed on a point just behind the detective’s head. "It’s happening. It’s always happening."

"Enough," the detective snapped, clicking the recorder off. "The interview is over. You're wasting city resources and pulling our chain. I suggest you seek immediate psychiatric evaluation before we charge you with filing a false report."

### Wednesday, 10:00 AM

**Holland Police Department Dispatch**

The call came in as a "Code 2"—a domestic disturbance. A neighbor had reported the sound of wood splintering and a woman screaming, followed by a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight in the hallway.

When the officers kicked in the door to the third-floor walk-up, the smell hit them first—iron and copper. Mary Jane was sprawled across the linoleum in a pool of crimson that had already begun to darken at the edges. A heavy, rusted crowbar lay inches from her hand, discarded like a piece of trash. Her skull had been systematically destroyed from behind.

The junior officer knelt by the body, his breath catching. He reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

It was an official police referral form, dated two days prior. At the bottom, in the detective's own handwriting, was a dismissive scrawl:

> *“Subject claims to be a murder victim. Determined to be a delusional episode. Advised to seek mental health services and warned against further false confessions.”*

> 

The officer looked from the note to the shattered remains of Mary Jane’s face. She looked exactly as she had in the interview room: waiting for someone to finally believe her.