You could barely stomach what happened. Just hours ago, you were on your way to your mother's house, after hearing that she had a particularly strenuous day at work; she needed to be soothed, so you'd do so. But the next moment, her body was being wheeled away, a white blanket laid across her so that she was shielded by your shrill cries.

Sirens whizzed past your ears, blending in with the attempt of comfort anyone tried to offer you, only to be deflected by distant, glassy eyes like water off a duck's back.

How could you let this happen, you thought. You were the one shoulder she had to cry on, the one person she could call when she needed it the most, and you. Weren't. There. And now, you needed her, and she wasn't there. You needed her now, and she wasn't, nor would be, there.

Your head was a myriad of what if's and alternate scenarios, ones where maybe you could see who or what was responsible for the bloody hand outstretched towards an impossible escape or an imaginary saviour. Those thoughts were like cars in rush hour, tires screeching, cars honking, headlights flooding the horizon; it'd make any sane person overwhelmed.

You couldn't last recall, however, when the sound of fingers snapping, seemingly so close to you, were a primary sound in traffic. It prompted you to refocus your clouded, mile long stare, and to then reabsorb the scene you were placed into now.

An almost clinical interrogation room, a mirror in which you knew spectators of your absent expression and cracks of anguish were undoubtedly spying from the other side.

Before you, sat a young man who appeared to be questioning you. His features seemed to be in harmony with each other, between his dark honey gaze with just a shimmer of impatience, and equally dark hair that sat styled atop his hair; in contrast to the classic attire of a shirt and tie. Detective Grayson, you remembered him telling you.

"Look, the only way we can catch whoever did this, is if you give us something. Okay?"