Good for the Soul

by Jane Davitt

I'm good at interrogations, but it's not why I love doing them. I wish it was; I wouldn't feel so…yeah. Well.

It's not the really evil sons of bitches I like to break, the ones with the hard eyes and cold smiles. Oh, sure, I'll lean on them, let them see just how much I want to hurt them, and I guess they see something of the animal in me, all teeth and hunger, because they flinch a little and start to sweat. Most cops wouldn't notice; would keep hammering at them, but I know, and I ease back and then wham! I hit them hard and watch them crumble.

It's satisfying, sure, but it's just my job.

What keeps me awake at night, hands busy, eyes screwed closed so I can't see myself, are the other kind. Not the kids, all peach-fuzz chins, with wide, scared eyes, shaking and stammering; those boys I'm kind to. Gentle with, even. Kind Uncle Jim. Have a sucker on the way out and tell the nice gentleman on the desk thank you for arresting me.

No, it's the young assholes, all sneer and sass, sweetly filthy mouths, arrogance leaking from them that I love to work over until they crack. I lean in close, smiling, never raising my voice. If they're pretty, hell, even if they're not, I touch them; light grazes of my knuckles against their cheeks, tweaking their hair, patting their shoulder, giving them friendly hugs, trapping them against me, until they start to tense, anticipating… or relax, tilt their heads, show me their throat, never realizing what they’re doing.

I murmur into their ears, words I'm not sure the tape picks up, but the boys always hear. I tell them what they've got waiting for them in prison, draw a picture and fill in every detail until they're squirming on their chair, asses wriggling just like they will when they're being nailed by some no-neck with an itch to scratch. I feel my dick fill and swell; harden with every whispered promise of tears to come, pain to endure. So fucking delicious that reek of fear when you're a predator and right then, I've forgotten I'm anything else.

Sometimes, I see the shine of tears in their eyes; watch the wet lick of their tongue over dry, quivering lips. Sometimes, they jerk their head away defiantly, mouth set and sulky, and I'm forced to get a little angry with them, fingers and thumb biting into their chin, bringing their gaze back to mine so they can see me smile and I can watch them beg silently with their eyes for me to show them a way out even if they're still mouthing off.

Prison won't break them.

I do that before they ever get there, just the two of us in this small, gray room, with the tape hissing softly and my voice quickening as they break for me, break wide open.

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