Here is a suspenseful short story about a man who wakes from a drunk night and finds himself charged with murder.
His walk was uneven, he burped beer clouds. He stumbled then stretched out his hand to stop the building from spinning. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and whipped it out.
The stench of piss stung his nose. He touched his head to the wall. A warm liquid trickled over his hand. A woman spoke to him, but the only word he caught was “hand”.
He had pissed on his hand. His trousers were wet too.
He woke several hours later to what he thought was a helicopter but it was a ceiling fan. He was nauseated by the sound of fingers tapping on typewriters. Somewhere there was arguing, but the voices were muffled by closed doors.
His mouth tasted of vomit and he reeked of dried urine. A sharp pain pinched his head. He lifted his hands, but they were handcuffed to the arms of a chair.
“So you’re back?” said a voice.
Jake was seated beside a desk where a man was typing. He was clean shaved and wore a white shirt with a thin black tie.
“Just finishing up a few details then we’ll get you processed,” said the man.
“Processed?” said Jake squinting his eyes because the light stung, “bus?”
“You’ll be housed at the city jail,” said the detective.
“What?” Jake’s eyes widened his hangover seemed to vanish, “For being drunk in public?”
“No, for first degree murder.”
Jake’s cheeks flushed. The square windows, the metal desks, the typewriters, even the men in suits blurred into each other. He put his head between his knees. The detective Ryan slid a trash bin between Jake’s legs.
“There has to be a mistake. I didn’t murder anyone!” said Jake as he tried to remember what happened last night.
The detective said nothing and kept typing.
“I left the bar around one in the morning,” said Jake in a pleading tone “ask around they’ll tell you. Call my friends, they’ll say I could never do something like this.”
Still the detective said nothing.
“Look, we found you passed out in an alley with a bloody knife in your hand,” the detective clenched the arms of his chair and leaned in close to Jake, “the same alley where you murder Dakota Fin, a sixteen-year-old run-away from Chicago.”
Jake thought the detective was going to smack him, but he went back to typing.
“I was framed, detective,” said Jake quietly, hoping not to upset the detective, “Did anyone see me do it?”
“No, but I didn’t see Booth kill Lincoln,yet, I’m sure he did it.”
Jake sunk in his chair. He could hear the rowdy men and women being processed in the next room. He suddenly remembered the woman.
“There was a woman she saw me and spoke to me” he said.
“Sure buddy, we spoke to everyone and no one remembers seeing you, but that won’t matter.”
“There was a woman!” he said.
“If there was someone who saw you, don’t you think they would have come forward? This case has been blasted on the radio and on television, nice try though.” he said.
“But there was a woman!”
Response to Daily Prompt: Uneven