A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Arrested

A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Arrested

They came early in the morning, before Mandy had even finished brewing the first pot of coffee. She was surprised when the door splintered and officers in riot gear stormed into the pristine order of her living room. She reached shock when they said Deirdre was to be remanded to custody. Holding one of the throw pillows in her lap she rubbed at the boot print that marred the embroidered surface, but the mud had been ground into the thread. It would not come out.

Deirdre was not in her room. They pounded down the stairs, surrounding Mandy, surrounding the entire floral-printed love seat and demanded to know where he daughter was. She didn’t know.

She was finally scared when the one in charge raised his arm to backhand her. The feeling didn’t go away when one of the others stopped him from going through with the threat. She trembled. The door was gone, and a breeze blew into the house. It was early. She was dressed only in her nightdress and wash-worn house coat.

They said they would find Deirdre. Things would be easier on her if she helped them. She cradled the pillow to her chest, and shook her head. She didn’t know. Would she tell them if she did? She didn’t know. He snarled at her. She was wasting their time.

They ruined her morning and her daughter was going to jail. She looked over their black uniforms, no insignia, no acronyms. They talked into the backs of their hands and voices answered them. Out the window she could see black sedans with tinted windows. No flashing lights. No shields, no logos.

Her daughter was going somewhere, but it wasn’t jail.

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