Blurred background image
12 min read

I Don’t Know What to Do

5 Stories 7 Followers
I Don’t Know What to Do

I’ve gotten into some trouble recently, and I need to tell people about it. I need to know if anyone has experienced something like this. I don’t want to be alone in this. I’m really, really scared. Please, bear with me while I explain what happened to me. For the purposes of this, I’m going to remain anonymous, so I don’t complicate my situation further. You’ll find out why in a little bit. I really appreciate you taking your time to hear me out and help me.

It all started at school while I was taking a calculus test. The classroom door opened, and a police officer stepped inside. I remember glancing over to him, looking for an excuse to take a break from my test. I didn’t recognize the police officer. He wasn’t one of the normal officers that patrolled my high school. He had another officer with him, and my principal was standing in the hallway with a worried expression. It’s not like I had never seen officers before; they broke up fights and arrested students on occasion. Though, a pit formed in my stomach when the larger officer stared right at me.

In a gruff voice, the officer insisted that I be removed from class and immediately go to the police station for questioning. My heart began to race while I wondered what they wanted. Questioning? About what? I didn’t cause trouble, so was it something else? Was I in the wrong place at the wrong time? Had something happened to one of my friends?

Everyone stared at me until I left the room. The door closed behind me, and I started to ask what the questioning was about. I barely got to finish my sentence before the officer was slapping handcuffs around my wrists. Then, he began to recite my rights while I panicked and demanded why I was being arrested. They wouldn’t tell me anything. I had no choice but to walk with them out of my school and straight into the back of a patrol car.

When we arrived at the station, I went through booking. They took my mug shot, my fingerprints, and confiscated my car keys and cellphone. Afterward, they placed me in an interview room and left me by myself. I was a minor, so my interview couldn’t begin until one of my parents arrived.It was the worst 20 minutes of my life. I was terrified. How could I be arrested? I hadn’t done anything wrong! This had to be a huge mistake.

My father eventually arrived and began questioning me about what was going on. I had no idea what to tell him. I thought that I was obligated to know why I was being arrested after all, but they practically abducted me from my school without a reason.

A stern detective entered the room and sat opposite me, placing a file in front of him along with a cup of coffee. My father barraged the man with questions until the detective finally silenced him. He opened the file and began sifting through the papers like he didn’t know where to begin.

“Why have you arrested my son? We deserve to know the charges!” my father snapped, slamming his fist on the metallic table.

The detective sighed and warned my father to calm down, or he’d be escorted out and the interview postponed. He removed a piece of paper from the file and began to read. “Your son is being charged with at least three counts of vandalism, including arson, and four counts of first-degree murder.”

I didn’t know what to say. I stared blankly at the detective like I had heard him wrong. When I regained my voice, I swore that I would never commit those crimes, but the detective refused to believe me.

He began describing the case to us, so we’d understand why I was being charged. Apparently during one of the murders, a department store camera across the street from a crime scene caught the perpetrator on film, and they linked the figure to footage from a camera from a separate crime scene months before. In the most recent footage, the camera caught a glimpse of the murderer’s face. The police took the image, improved its quality, and submitted it to a software that would digitally draw the face. Needless to say, the software’s drawing of the perp resembles me. I can’t even say the image resembles me. Somehow, I knew the image was me. It was my face. This was why I had been arrested. It had to be some sick coincidence.

My father began defending me and demanding when these crimes supposedly took place, so I could provide credible alibis. Luckily for me, these crimes occurred at night. This meant that my parents and neighbors could cover me along with my baseball teammates. We often had late practices and games, and my coach would have a record of who had been in attendance. I felt confident that I would be allowed to leave after we tried to explain.

However, the detective insisted that I wasn’t going anywhere until witnesses confirmed my albis, and shortly afterward, I received worse news. In addition to the witnesses, I was being required to take a polygraph test which is a lie-detector exam and remain at the station for a psychological evaluation to be administered over the next 48 hours. My father tried to stay as long as possible, but the officers refused to let him return to the interview room.

Simply put, I was terrified. The polygraph test was brutal. The detective would persistently ask me horrifying questions, and the entire time, he stared at me like I was already guilty. I avoided his eyes and focused on my knees; it made me feel so paranoid like he was tricking me into incriminating myself. He’d ask the same questions over and over, rewording them, but I wouldn’t back down. I was telling the truth, and I had to believe that. Yet when the test was over, I felt disgusted with myself like I had actually committed those crimes.

My psychological evaluation wasn’t much better. It wasn’t what I expected. I was led to a similar interview room and sat across from a man with a clipboard and glasses on the bridge of his nose. Honestly, we just talked for a little while. The psychologist wanted to learn a little more about me before we began our session. I just told him about my life, and I considered it perfectly normal. It just worried me when I’d talk about baseball, and I see his pen scribbling furiously away. Was that somehow a sign of insanity? I had no way of knowing. We had four sessions in total over the 48 hours. What worried me the most is not knowing his final verdict. I was returned to my cell before I got the chance to ask.

Thankfully, I was released the following morning. I was shook awake by my mother, and we were escorted into the lobby by a police officer. My father was speaking to the detective with a frustrated expression and snatched a file from the man. I heard my father warning that my charges need to be dropped, or he’d sue for them holding me at the station without any evidence to back up their claims.

I thought that my situation couldn’t get any weirder after my nightmare at the station. Well, I was wrong. I started to get an uneasy feeling in my chest. I tried to ignore it at first. I mean, it wasn’t easy returning to school and ignoring the stares with my arrest rumors spreading like wildfire. Only my friends listened to my explanation about it being a mistake, but even they acted strange around me. It would have only taken a few days for me to get used to it. I would have been able to do it. It was my parents that really made me feel uneasy. They knew that my arrest was a mistake, yet they tripped over their words like they were walking on eggshells. I couldn’t take it any longer.

The detective gave my father a file, and I was determined to find it. I wanted to know everything about my case and why they held so much suspicion over me. I waited for my parents to go on their date night, and I began searching through my parents’ usual hiding spots. The file was locked in the back of my father’s desk drawer, and I found it quick enough, giving me plenty of time to study it.

I examined the case and my charges first. A few of them were minor like a storefront being smashed out with a brick or the library being defaced with graffiti. I still have no idea how those were linked back to me; I didn’t have a lot of time to read over every detail. The escalation of the charges confused me though. The vandalism were misdemeanors but not the arson and especially not the murder.

I flipped through the file, trying to find the digital drawing of the perpetrator’s face, but it must not have been included with the paperwork. I stopped searching for it when I stumbled upon my polygraph results. I passed the test with flying colors which should have been no surprise to me. Why was I put through a psychological examination then?

I was relieved to discover a copy of the psychologist’s notes at the back of the file along with a copy of the detective’s notes. I started with the psychologist’s notes and knew his opinion would be key. He’d know if there was something wrong with me. However, none of his observations were out of the ordinary. I read at the beginning of his notes that he was examining me for numerous personality disorders, but I didn’t show signs of having any. I don’t know why I felt so uneasy about this. I knew that I didn’t have any disorders. There was even a copy of my medical history, and the worst thing on there is when I broke my arm and my pollen allergy.

Something just didn’t feel right, so I pushed on and glanced through the detective’s notes. This is what I’ve concluded from him.

Did I have a mental disorder? This is why I was examined by the psychologist.

Did I have a twin? I do not have any siblings. I’m an only child, and medical records confirmed this.

Most of his speculations were eventually disproven, but a brief note in the margins caught my eye. Are their fingerprints a coincidence? Their appearances? Not likely.

What was he talking about? I went back through the file methodically and discovered a flash drive. I replaced the file and locked the desk drawer back, taking the flash drive back to my room with me. I slid it into my laptop and opened the files. A few of them were audio recordings which I assumed was documentation of my interview. I narrowed my eyes and clicked on an image with fingerprints on it, and my eyes widened. The detective was right. On the left was an image of the perpetrator’s prints, taken from the most recent crime scene. On the other side were my prints after they were entered into the system. The fingerprints mirrored each other exactly. That couldn’t be possible. Identical twins don’t even have identical fingerprints!

The fingerprint image was tossed into an evidence folder, and there was also a video file which I clicked on. I was a little confused at first because it was just surveillance footage of my jail cell. I checked the timestamp, and it was a little after midnight. I watched the video for a few minutes as I paced around the cell. This must have been my first or second night there; I appeared so distraught. I continued to watch the video as I paced in the same motion, stopping at the same spots and turning back around. Was this on a loop? Why was this in an evidence file? I skipped ahead to see if there’d be a change. I skipped to one in the morning and then to three in the morning. What the hell? I just kept pacing back and forth! Around five in the morning, it stopped and showed me sleeping on my bed. Had I been sleepwalking? I couldn’t explain it. When I heard my parents return home, I shut off my computer and got ready for bed.

I closed my eyes and tried to wrap my head around all of it. That’s when I realized something extremely terrifying. There were a few notes from the psychologist that resonated with me now, pertaining to a particular disorder. He mentioned briefly unrest, anxiety, and something else. That’s why I’m saying this now. I need help from someone. I’m so afraid. Please! I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore.

If you wake up in the morning and you don’t remember having a dream, how do you know you were ever asleep? I have dissociative identity disorder, and I’ve done terrible things.

Leave a comment

No comments have been shared yet. Log in or sign up, and be the first to break the deafening silence.