Lifting my gaze, I look at myself in the mirror again and vow that whenever I get out of the mess my ex-boyfriend has gotten me into, I’m going to learn how to be a lesbian, even if I’m not sure that’s actually possible.
“I hate men,” I whisper into the empty interrogation room, where I was told to wait over an hour ago after the police kicked in my door and dragged me from my bed. Resting my elbows on the desk in front of me, I run my fingers through my hair, pulling the strands back away from my face. It’s the one my sister December got me as a joke, but I wear it occasionally, because it’s comfortable, even if it was made for a woman three times my age.
My hair is a disaster, there are bags under my eyes¸ and the nightgown I have on isn’t even one of the cute ones I normally wear. Looking at my reflection in the mirror across from me, I cringe.
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