Chapter 6 Who Are You

The police station of Ballesteros is not an ideal place to hold criminals or designed to house any fellon for any reason whatsoever. Though it is an 11000 square foot building. The errection of it was a few decades ago. The cells which was supposed keep criminals have iron bars that are rusted and weakened by time. The reception area desperately needs a new desk. Their computers are out-dated and barely does the station receive its appropriate funding.

Although the police facility was built for a long term service as claimed by its builders, it doesn't need a genius to realise that the materials used for its construction was cheap. Not only that, but its also inadequate of actual departmental functions. The walls are littered with spider cracks. The tiles on the ground are most likely to break by the constinous amount of weight and footfalls that it received through out the years. Detective Bartome nearly drove himself insane when he first set foot inside the run-down station. He was a highly decorated soldier, before he decided to leave the army and try to settle down. Although, the demons of the battlefield kept waging war inside his tortured mind, he can't give up on the service. He needed to be a part of the force.

Being a police detective may not offer as much thrill as when he rode the tides of bombs and endless flights to survive the stray bullets of enemies from off shore countries, it still gave him a sense of belongingness.

After drinking a cup of coffee, he walked towards the doble mirror that separated the interrogation room and the viewing room. Though he found the station lacking, the mirror gave the pathetic building they called police station, justice.

He gazed at the woman who was still crouched at the corner of the room. Her disarranged and scruffy clothes smeared with blood sent shivers down his spine. The amount of torture and pain she must have suffered reminded him of the plight to survive.

As he kept his eyes on her, he found himself once again standing in a battle field. He can hear the wails of his comrades. The dismembered bodies of the people he once called brothers lay scattered amidst smokes and fallen branches. The battle field is not far from the portraits of hell. The cry of dying man echoed all around the open field. Humans and their burning flesh brought about by the endless fires caused by bombs, released a foul smell in the air, mingling with the horizon like a suffocating poison, entering his lungs that gave birth to a constricting pain within his body. He can Almost see their souls fading as their lives are drained by their wounds and bullets that are sheathed on the muscle beneath their skin.

Bartolome suddenly felt his blood boiling and straigh-away, the urge to kill clawed and slithered out of its dormancy, consuming every fiber of him until it finally broke free. Absent-mindedly, he pulled his gun out of its holster, raised it towards the mirror and slid his finger on the trigger.

But before he could pull on it, realization set in. The blood rush and blood lust slowly dwindled from his body, releasing his soul of the sinister thoughts which consumed him minutes ago.

He immediately lowered his gun, but as he did so, he got a glimpse of the woman on the other side, shooting him a baleful glance. He couldn't help but question, was she seeing him on the other side?

Why was she staring at him with an intention filled with malice? Bartolome was about to turn around when he heard someone whisper, "How many lives have you taken?" He immediately spun on his heels, craning his neck in every direction, only to find no one near him.

Confused, he rubbed his nape in an attempt to calm his nerves.

He once again turned to face the mirror, and at doing so, he saw his partner holding on to his neck. Blood was spurting within the gaps of the fingers that tried to stop the flow of blood from what seemed like a deep wound near his chin. Instantly, detective Bartolome sprung to his feet. He maneuvered his body against the pile of papers scattered on the floor, bumping unto chairs and tables until he finally reached the door to the interrogation room.

"Marcus" he yelled, as he pushed the door open.

Shocked would be an understatement to what the detective felt as his eyes befell on the image of his partner sitting on a metal chair, across the woman whom he saw minutes ago, crouched at the far left corner of the room.

Marcus stared back at him, confusion written all over his face.

Bartolome took a step back. Marcus is clean of blood. He has no wound on his neck. He is sitting leisurely in the middle of the room, comfortable and free of pain.

"What the fuck was that?" Bartolome whispered as he kept shooting his partner a worried look.

Marcus stood from his chair and walked towards him. "Are you alright?" he asked. Bartolome bobbed his head and answered "I think I was day dreaming."

His partner placed a hand on his shoulder, smiled and said. "No man, you were night dreaming." the laughter that came out of Marcus pulled Bartolome out of his stupor.

He joined in on the laughter, but couldn't help glancing at the woman, who once again was staring at him. This time, she kept her Hazel eyes locked on his without a single blink to disrupt her gaze.

"Mind if I give it another shot?" Bartome whispered to his partner when Marcus motioned to settle back on the metal chair.

Marcus bobbed his head and went on to say "I think she got nothing." Bartolome arched his eyebrow in response, but he did not receive another word from Marcus who had already stepped out of the room.

"Tell me a something woman, how exactly did you get abducted by this person, you call the devil?"

Bartolome thought he saw her smile, but when he blinked to clear his sight, the woman's lips is far from graced with one. She still carried an aggrieved face. Her eyes are wet by the constant dropping of her tears, while her chest took a rhythmic dance that to Bartolome, seemed unnatural.

"I...I don't remember, no.. no.. I can't tell." she answered. Her body began furiously shake, she suddenly smelt of burnt flesh, much like the one's that whiffed through his nose during his time in the battlefield. Slowly, the skin on her face began to peel off, exposing the muscles beneath them.

Mathew Bartolome fell on the floor when the sudden jolt of his body knocked the metal chair off balance.

"What the fuck are you!" he yelled, when the woman suddenly stood from her chair. Pieces of her flesh fell on the floor. Her hair too began to shed as blood spilled out of her mouth. Then after, she gazed at him, with crimson fluid smeared over her lips as she asked "Can i trust you?"

Hazily, Bartolome bobbed his head. He had seen many things during his time as a soldier. Blood curdling and heart crippling scenes. He had gazed in the eyes of a man as he plunged his knife into his throat, watching the life out of that enemy slowly fade. Yet, the fear which suddenly took hold of him inside the interrogation room, under the paralysing glare of the woman looking down on him at that very moment, mocked those experiences as a day in the park.