There were two things you knew your alibi depended on:
1. The amount of blood on your hands, and
2. The position of the dead body.
Unfortunately, the former was theoretical and the latter was dependant of the placement of the footprints in the snow and the time of death.
Unfortunately for you, the footprints happened to lead to your feet, and happened to be from the same size foot as you.
As unfortunate circumstances go, this was pretty high on your scale.
And considering the presumed murder weapon had just dropped to the ground from your hands, slashing through the snow like the heart of the mangled corpse in front of you, the weight of this murder would surely land upon your head.
Retching was all your stomach could do to cope with the sight.
Bitterness stung through your limbs as you curled up in the snow, a broad tree offering support as a backrest whilst you found it impeccably hard to tear your eyes from such a bloody scene. Untouched snow became stained with a thousand rose petals of a broken heart, being soaked up like the ground needed supplementing with the blood of a sacrifice.
You didn't know who the deceased had been before their departure from this cruel world, however it had filled up a vast amount of your thoughts processes thinking of the potential lives that had been ruined by his death.
Even as your face was being forced into the snow, your hands snapped behind your back, your legs restrained and muffled shouts ebbed their way into your ears, your mind was still stuck at the moment you first saw blood.
Tendrils of steam rising from the cafeteria cup of tea occasionally drifted into your field of vision as you stared blankly at the table. Your mind had become a process of drifting thoughts, leaving you unable to latch onto a specific trail as it left your conscious mind for good.
The bland room was made even blander still by the lack of any features, apart from a conveniently placed mirror that managed to fill half the entire wall. Unexciting overalls left you feeling without identity as you felt the clamminess of your hands rehydrate the victims blood trapped in the creases of your casually calloused palms, catching on your metal restraints. It managed to become a swirling mix of art and disaster on the blue of your overalls, and made your reflection look like that of a horror movie psychopath.
Unflinching, you raised your vision slowly to meet the eyes of an over-exhausted inspector. His words didn't become sentences in your head, but then again, he didn't have anything remotely interesting to say.
Your eyes dropped once more.
The irritation in his voice managed to escape your hearing. It mean nothing to you. Nothing he did meant anything.
He left the room.
The fifth time he came back, he was silent.
Like a shark circling its prey, he slowly paced around you before sitting down.
Steepled hands. Shallow breathing.
Your eyes flicked up instantly.
Oh...this wasn't the inspector from before.
You stared a little, an emotionless façade portraying nothing but the emptiness inside you.
"That was his name."
You paused ever so slightly before lowering your line of sight again. You had no words to say. It was not your place to speak.
The steepled hands folded in on each other just within your vision.
"Did you kill him?" The depth of this voice kept catching you off-guard, pulling your focus towards what he was saying.
"Did you kill Steven Tucker?"
Your breathing made a noticeable change; only slightly, but very definitely there.
"Did you kill this man?" A picture of said victim was thrust onto the table in front of you, and your efforts to avoid eye contact with the picture were in vain as it was forced into your line of sight.
The chair was thrown back as you emptied the scant remains of your last meal in the corner of the room, your stomach heaving with a gut-wrenchingly unavoidable pain.
The door shut behind you.
You sat down. Alone.
Two hours of incessant ticking went by as you counted every second that passed.
And still you counted.
And then you stopped.
The man from before might have been sat there for 1528 of the seconds you'd counted, but you'd only noticed now.
Your brain had noticed a while back. Your conscience had only just decided to pay the trivial matter any attention.
"I don't believe you killed him."
Your eyes narrowed as you stared at the impromptu feet covers you'd been forced to wear. Your mind couldn't quite decifer words correctly.
Your mind zoned out again. This was becoming an involuntarily reaction.
An awkward silence settled rather unpleasantly in the room. You managed to forget that anyone was there.
Crossing your legs on the chair, you placed your shackled hands on your ankles. Somehow, this made you feel secure.
This was the first thing you'd felt for hours.