Because I Said I Was

I was there. That much is true. I remember the window half open, curtain breathing in. A low hum—refrigerator maybe, maybe not. Something in the walls. Or behind them.

They asked my name. I gave it. I always give the same name. It’s mine. I’ve checked the mail. It’s on the pills. My mother used to say it, though sometimes with different vowels. Still—mine.

I told them what happened. The girl. The sound. The crack of something not quite wood. I told them straight. Words in order like beads on a string. I saw her fall. Or trip. Or kneel. She was fine after. I think she waved. Or was that yesterday?

They asked again. I tried to keep the story upright. But it leaned. Facts slouched. Time hiccupped. I watched the night stretch sideways. Not metaphor—the street bent. Like wet paper. You ever try walking on wet paper?

They said I contradicted myself. I said yes. Then no. Then asked if they could hear the buzzing too. They couldn’t. That’s when I knew I was alone again.

Still, I stayed calm. I looked calm. I know how to look. Keep your hands flat. Blink regular. Don’t mention the echo inside your teeth.

I didn’t hurt her. Or if I did it wasn’t me. It was the version with the red jacket. I burned the jacket. I don’t even own red. That’s proof isn’t it?

They said I confessed. I said I explained. I said I was cooperative. I said I’d been off my meds, but I could still be trusted. I made tea. That’s something sane people do.

You’re nodding. That’s good. That means you hear me now. It’s harder when the words come out sideways. But these are straight. You see that right?

Everything I’ve said is true. You can line it up. Just don’t try to overlap it.

I never asked to be believed.

I just said I was.