Fragment #89 - Miss Mancabou

She sits down in front of me. She's very stylish. I can see, only by the material of her clothes, that it's haute couture. Her perfume... If I'm not mistaken, it's Chanel n°5. Just smelling its sweet waves, I feel even more dirty and stinky.
She smiles at me. Whatever. I won't get fooled. I've seen too many things since I've been here. Maybe they decided to play the good cop-bad cop trick. As if that would get me... Maybe they really think I'm stupid. I sit up straight, and wait for the questions, always the same, to come: why did you go to Dakar? who did you see there? what did you talk about?
But she stays silent, for now. She stands up, walks a little in the room. And then, sits back down.
"Mademoiselle Collomb."
In French? Well, if it takes your fancy, lassie.
"Mademoiselle Mancabou."
She slaps me violently in the face.
"How dare you speak this name? You killed my father, the man who bore it so honourably."
Oh, ok. So that's how I am here. She thinks I killed her father.
"I didn't kill your father."
She slaps me again, but with the back of her hand this time. The side with the rings. My lower lip explodes under the shock. I let my head down, a little while, my eyes on the weird pattern that the drops of my blood create. Then I look at her. She's shivering. Of contained rage.
It's going to hurt.