The Creature
By: Zack Mason
Tags: Fiction, Short Story

Photo by Lai Man Nung on Unsplash

The room was uncomfortable. Resembling an asylum cell or hospital operating theater, it was white from floor to ceiling and lit with a single fluorescent tube light set right in the middle of the ceiling above a table with a chair on either side. Along the wall to the left of the door was a large mirror, spanning from end to end. The single tube light cast a clear brightness over everything, revealing each detail in the room in shocking, off putting brilliance. The clear bright light of the law. A beacon of truth shining over and revealing details that may have rather hid in the shadows. There were no such shadows to hide behind in this room. There really wasn’t anything as a matter of fact. Just the mirror, walls, chairs and the table. The light flickered.

The air in the room was dead, a certain stagnant weight lay over it. On the other side of the mirror, things were a little more lively but still very tense. The officials were all sitting impatiently, occasionally checking watches, adjusting glasses and fiddling with writing utensils or tape recorders. The room was so tense that there was almost an audible humming. Feet tapped, noses itched, coffee was greedily consumed. The second hand on the clock ticked ominously. The temperature rose

The hoard waited quietly, existing alongside one another for the sake of the story, the discovery or the spectacle. Men and women who had not spoken with one another in years were in this room. They sat next to each other staring, without blinking, through the mirror like a group of starving dogs. They were poised, they were hungry, and they were in desperate need of a story. These were reporters and journalists, scientists and observers. This was what they did.

It was not until precisely ten o’clock in the evening that, finally, something happened. The door at the far end of the room unlatched. The knob turned and hinges glided silently as the whole contraption swung open.

In walked the Warden. He was a tall, handsome man, or at least he had been. In the bright beauty of his youth the Warden had stood an impressive two meters in height and was built like a towering oak. He had been revered and feared on the field of many sports, graduated at the top of his class and boxed in the service before moving into the position of Warden. Now he was reduced to a measly one meter eighty five. Still tall, but nothing in comparison to his former glory. He had however preserved his pride, his confidence and his poise. Walking stooped, but self assured nonetheless, he lead behind him the main event. The reason that the room was tense. The reason that the reporters, journalists, scientists, experts and the like were crammed expectantly in the room behind the large mirror. The Creature entered the interrogation room. It walked to the opposite side of the table and sat. the Warden sat opposite the Creature and looked it in the eyes.

There was something there in that Creature’s strange eyes. Something that the Warden simply could not understand. He had worked for many years and had dealt with many criminals. Thieves, murderers, rapists, vandals, addicts, conmen, thugs. He understood these people. They all had the same looks. The same eyes. They all made him feel the same way. The Creature was different from all of them.

“What is your name”

He demanded. His mouth was very dry and his palms sweaty. His voice however, a rich baritone, still rang true. Not a quiver to be heard. The Creature didn’t seem to pick up on any of this. Not his overtone of confidence and power, not his underlying fear. To the Creature, his reputation didn’t exist. It was not concerned. It just looked back at him with nonchalance and indifference.

“What is your name?”. The question was repeated. Louder this time, and with more strength. The Creature was still silent.

“If you fail to answer the question, we will be forced to prosecute you anyway.”

The Warden was growing more confident. Supported by the hoard behind the glass, his confidence began to creep back.

“God dammit you bastard what is your name!?”

The Warden was shouting now. His face was getting a tinge of red and a vein was coming out near his temple, peeking out from below his hat.

The Creature’s defiance persevered. It was not fighting back or complying with the Wardon’s demands. It just simply refused to cooperate, it was operating on an entirely different level (socially speaking) and this is what bothered the Warden so much. A spitting, cursing, flailing vagabond could be dealt with easily. A submissive crook was easier still. The Creature on the other hand, was a puzzle. It didn’t fit into a box.

The Warden stared in disbelief. No one and nothing had ever defied him like this. He was the man of the station. The cock of the roost. The Alpha of the pack. He was universally respected in the community.

“Alright. The choice is yours. Your trial will be tomorrow and you will be fetched at 11:30.”

With that, a pair of guards strolled in. The larger of the two cuffed the Creature and began leading him out of the interrogation room while the other took up the rear, covering the Creature from a distance with his rifle.

The Warden was exhausted. He stared into the two way mirror, his face painted with drained disbelief and resignation. He was angry. A deep bitter sort of anger that throbbed from somewhere deep in his gut. He slowly stood from his chair, brushed down his uniform, turned on his heel and strode out of the interrogation room.