The city was in silent disarray.
Shelters were now packed with the forlorn, and the homeless few residents that struggled to comprehend what had just happened… all too suddenly.
The diluted white lights beamed upon the now empty-eyed, lumps of flesh that were the people of downtown… who concurrently were stripped of all their worth. The aqua walls held firm to the cold night. Only the noise of its growing rage haunted the structure.
There weren't any remains to mourn either.
Evident was the exhaustion of the victims, but despite this… flocks of reporters were immediately on scene… by the hour, there wasn't a news outlet that hadn't shared its devastation…and soon, they'll all come to know the man jailed for suspect of mass murder… he lay asleep, heavily injured, within the guarded infirmary of the city's prison.
A live video… starring a woman and her friends, those who accused the known suspect of rape, the same girl who took priority in capturing a spectacle of Norman, being, as so they knew him rightfully scorned for "his" actions, it caught everything just before havoc were to reign upon those so called heros.
The details of Jake's unbuckled belt and drunk conduct, in contrast to Norman's sober expressions, drew no sort of question… and like Margie's friend… they saw no need for mercy or reverence. Details were lost on the people. From the few thousand who had already witnessed the "justice," many in the city saw this, either through news outlets, billboards, or simply through personal means. Many speculated.
Roaring flames of hatred grew among the folly, as knowledge of the doer's wellbeing, his living, was an outrageous notion.
He dared to be alive, they said.
Riots erupted.
Every breath was precious… murder was heinous, self-defence is no longer viable when lives of innocence have been affected. Rape of all things. Nauseating. He should've died then and there, they continue, Convicts should be convicted, they yelled… framed for one crime, the other so blatantly apparent.
Nevertheless… he was sworn to damnation.
All the while.
Plain ceilings and dark corners, that even if this place did harbor the sick, it was as though they couldn't oversee anything less. The bare minimum cushioned its walls.
"What happened, big man?"
…The air between them was sour, as both the mummy and the soldier refused to look at each other.
"Well... yeah, no. Silence is one of your rights." The commander was peeling an orange.
Tailing his earlier statement, "One of the only acceptable things to abuse, and it does fit the situation, considering what you did."
"I didn't touch her." Norman looks up, drowsy.
"That's not very convincing."
"M-hm."
"So you did do it?"
"No."
...Carter had a bothered expression. He didn't know what to say.
"Oh wow, okay... magical word right there."...The soldier continues, "Certainly haven't heard that before… Gotta say, you seriously don't look the part."
"I get that a lot," Norman said.
…
The commander laughs, holding an orange slice.
For a man covered in bandages, he held an odd feeling of acceptance, like defeat, that wove no shame.
"Doc said I can't eat right?"
"Yeah, it's for me." Carter would obnoxiously toss the orange into his mouth.
"Oh." Norman was patiently still, considering his unmoving predicament.
A brief moment passed.
"And the city?" Commander Carter spoke up once more.
"My fault, I... ah, never mind..."
"Not a man of your word are you?" The guy seemed disappointed, if anything...
Sighing.
"Listen, man." Carter sat closer.
"Ten years, right? Ten years, a magnitude of 12, Now that, I haven't to the slightest clue as to how, zero capacity, and negatively charged... yesterday's crap could've happened anytime, anywhere… how d'you survive exactly?"
"My wife." Norman sounded whimsical, almost.
"Ha… How's she?"
"Asleep."
The commander stood, saying.
"The interrogation is scheduled a week from now." He waves on ahead… "Rest up."
Despite the anger of hundreds, the governance wasn't one to carry out baseless accusations… Then again, they did have evidence. Despite this, the law demanded that people had the right to fight for whatever case they knew to be true to themselves. No matter how hopeless.
The day of interrogation arrives.
The heavily bandaged, yet surprisingly functional man recovered well.
When not even morning had come to pass, he'd be brought in for questioning. It was a confined space, He sat across from a gray-haired man. Who carried himself with a line of elegance, with conduct.
"Tell me, Thatcher. What did you do last week?"
"I was commissioned for a mural."
"Yes, and?"
"M-hm." Norman just nods
"Do you know Margie Rosewell?"
"No, not really." Blunt.