You are Emily Burke, a brown-haired, brown-eyed woman of 23. A bit taller than average, at just an inch shy of six feet, and with somewhat of an athletic frame from your days of high-school boxing, though it's been years since you've practiced. Your appearance, combined with your somewhat rugged outfit of jeans and a leather jacket (though truth be told it's not much more rugged than what others in this small town wear) don't help with the criminal image that you've suddenly been branded with, but you don't think a stranger would have misgivings of you just from looking at you.
You're not entirely sure what's going on. A couple days ago, you found yourself waking up with a splitting headache in the driver's seat of a car, the front crumpled against a tree trunk on the side of the road. Not 20 minutes later the police showed up, and much to your surprise immediately began shouting at you before arresting you and bringing you here. A blood test showed PCP and quite a lot of alcohol in your system, and the body they found in the trunk certainly doesn't help (though you haven't yet heard whether the man was alive or dead). But you've heard some of your new names from outside the jail: "thieving drifter," "joyrider," "murderer," "bitch." To this town, your guilt could not be more clear.
You haven't a friend here, except perhaps one, though he's more "nearby." A bit of a recluse, living in a cabin about 6 miles away. It was partly for his sake you came to this town at all, hoping to return this pendant of his. You're pretty sure that has something to do with it, too. You remember trying it on, and then seeing... something. What was it? Something you weren't supposed to, you're pretty sure. That must be why this is happening. But this friend cannot help you here. He wouldn't be someone of any influence here, though maybe he could get you a better lawyer than whatever lackey this place is likely to assign. But no, you don't even know if the guy owns a phone. Not like these folks are likely to let you call anyone...
Sighing, you look around your cell again. Who would have thought that the terror of such an unfair situation could coincide with such dullness? Aside from your self-pitying and anxious thoughts, there's not much to occupy your attention in this cold, uncomfortable cell. You are sitting on the bed, nothing more than a low metal shelf with a pillow, jutting from the wall. Across from you is the toilet. There are bars on either side of you: to your right, those of the high, short window, through which you hear drizzling rain outside. To your left, those separating your cell from the hallway, and comprising the door (which, needless to say is locked, as you confirm.) You find yourself wishing they had the easily escapable gaps of cartoon bars, but sadly this is not the case. Depressingly, the walls are made of unpainted cinderblocks, and the floor a smooth slab of concrete.
Your cell is one of five in this hallway, and the only occupied one. They're all on the same side of the hallway, facing a blank wall. Yours is the closest to the start of the hallway, and around the corner you can see the edge of a big, stationary desk, at which an officer is no doubt sitting. You can faintly hear the sounds of a TV coming from that room.
All you have in your pockets are a few miscellaneous crumpled, disintegrating pieces of paper. They confiscated pretty much everything else when they searched you, though somehow they missed the pendant. All you have are your clothes, shoes, pendant, and a hair scrunchie.
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Topic: Framed (It lives?) (Read 16263 times)