Chase Shustack

Are we clear?

Yes.

Yes, we're clear.

We're clear.

The man pulled back.

Good.

I'm glad we understand each other.

He walked over to an intercom on the wall and buzzed it, speaking into it loud enough so that even I could hear.

Boys, get him out of here.

We're through with him.

Two large men dressed in dark fatigues came in, scooped me up under both of my arms, and dragged me from the room.

I was led back down the windowless hallway, but rather than going back to that small dark room, I was instead led through a door and into a parking lot.

Once outside in the warm spring dawn, I was surprised to see that I was in the lot of my local police station.

I was even more surprised to see my parents standing there, next to their car, waiting for me.

The men tossed me at their feet, like a rag doll they were no longer amused with.

My mother quietly helped me into the car, while my father spoke to the men.

What they spoke about I don't remember, but I remember the tone of their voices.

Pleading, whimpering like children begging forgiveness for something they had done wrong.

It was a type of pleading that comes from someone who knows they've done something terrible, beyond terrible, and wanted some form of mercy shown to them.

A mercy they knew they could never get, nor did they deserve.