Disclaimer: If I owned the gone series, then I wouldn't have made a fanfiction about it
"Listen, I want to believe you, son, but you're not working with me here, so I'm just going to leave for a while so you can think about telling us the truth." The stupid police officer said. Apparently, I was their prime suspect in a murder investigation, because of my notebook. All I'd done was draw and write about a few slightly violent scenes, unfortunately, the picture I drew was identical to the picture of the crime scene, and the story I'd written matched the description of what they thought might have happened at the time. The victim was my science teacher, who I hated, so I'd drawn the picture to vent my anger. Unfortunately, she was killed that night.
The police officer came back in, he was a tall, broad-shouldered man with short greying hair and a large beard, he was playing "good cop", trying to make me tell him that I'd killed her, the only evidence they had was my notebook.
"So, Artemis, is it alright if I call you Arty?" No, you fucking moron, my name is Artemis, I thought, but stayed silent, as I had the previous nine hours of interrogation. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat "Um..Alright, then. So, Arty what was you're relationship like with your mother?" Did I mention that my science teacher was my mother? And We weren't exactly the perfect family, not after Dad died, killed himself, she blames me. I continued to be silent, I had a right to remain silent, didn't I? He seems shocked that a nine-year-old won't talk to him, it's actually quite funny.
"How about you explain these pictures you drew? Then you can go home." he was lying, like most adults did. He looked like he was trying to get a monkey to stop biting his finger. I bet he's only seen people my age as traumatized witnesses, who tell him their entire life story, not as an annoyed kid refusing to talk about anything.
"Now, listen, Arty, I know this is tough on you, but you've got to say something, we're the good guys here." no you aren't, my dad was a policeman, he killed himself and taught his oldest psychopath son to shoot a gun, and you don't need any information from me, I'm already guilty, who's going to say otherwise? My mum? My dad? My brother? Hell, no. I glared at him, still silent
He sighed "Okay then, Arty, you can go now." I raised an eyebrow, where was I supposed to go? "The people you'll be staying with for now are waiting outside." he explained
"Can I have my notebook back?" I asked. That was the first thing I said the entire time I'd been here. His beady little eyes widened in surprise.
"Oh..um.. well, you see, Arty, this notebook is being used as evidence," he explained, like a teacher trying to explain why you weren't supposed to pull people's hair. "maybe if you tell us a bit about what you drew in it, I'd be able to get them to give it back to you." He said, as if he wasn't one of them.
"Okay," I said, sliding in to the role of a scared nine year old. "but I need to have it here to be able to explain it to you."
"Alright, come over to my desk and you can explain it to me." he looked like a kid who was about to get the candy he'd been begging for.
He walked me over to his desk, it was covered in papers and files, and cop stuff, arranged into little piles around the desk, one file was open, it said Artemis Zwyn Merwin in bold letters on the top. He opened a drawer containing stuff that they'd taken from suspects, from pictures of their families to knives and other weapons. He pulled my notebook out of the mess and smiled at me. I looked back at the drawer, it contained a few knives, one of which stood out, ten inch blade with a black handle, I allowed fantasies of what I could do with it fill my mind.
He noticed me looking at the contents of the drawer, he closed it, completely failing at drawing my attention away from it, and I noticed that he hadn't locked it. He tapped the desk with his finger, my mind snapped away from the plan that was formulating in my head. Looking worried, he opened my notebook to the page of the picture of the murder. It was a pencil drawing, I never coloured in my drawings, but you could see the colours, if that makes sense. It was a picture of my mum lying on the floor, nearly dead, lying in a pool of blood, a knife was about to stab her a final eighteenth time.
He seemed to be in shock after seeing the gruesome picture for a second time. I took the opportunity and grabbed my notebook, pulling it out from under his hands, I pushed his paralysed form away and pulled open the drawer, I grabbed the knife I'd been looking at, accidentally cutting my hand on the blade. The police officer finally figured out what was happening and tried to grab me from behind, I twirled around pitifully ungracefully, stabbing him three times in the stomach before breaking free of his loosened grip and racing out of the building. A few police officers chased me, though most were inside, either still in shock from witnessing the murder or trying hopelessly to save the dead police man, like my mother had my father when I was seven.
It was dawn. They'd interrogated me all night, I realized, as I raced through the shadows. I had nowhere to go, but I had a knife and my notebook, and I always kept my mechanical pencil in the spiral binding of my notebook. And it was still there, and I had an extra, just in case. I had everything I would ever need.
With this in mind, I began to run faster, I was faster than most people my age, everyone knew, they noticed how fast I ran, but that wasn't what people recognised me for; I was a nine year old boy of average height, thin, with brown hair, and with acne beginning to show up on my face , normal, normal, completely normal. It was my brother that made everyone recognise me, my older brother, the boy who shot his neighbour in the leg, Drake Merwin.