Tears

          She doesn't understand what's happening to her.  All she knows is that something is not right.  Not by any means. 
          She turns her head a little and sees him lying there beside her.  He looks so sweet, sound alseep.  His chest rises and falls peacefully, calmly.  His fists are clenched, tucked under his chest.  His eyes move back and forth behind closed lids.  He grunts and groans a little in his sleep.  His feet kick-out occasionally.
          The bed smells of hard liquor, sweat, cigarettes, and vomit.  She shifts a little, trying to get some of the sheets to cover her naked body.  He turns over, pulling the blankets with him.
          She sighs and watches his chest rise and fall.  He looks so innocent.  A wolf in sheep's clothing.
          She knows what he is.  A monster.  That's all he is now.  He became that the second time he hit her.  She's known this for years.  And yet she is unable to escape him.  Her guilt holds her here.  Her fear cements her to him. 
          She's trapped.  She will be trapped forever.  Until something happens.
          He turns onto his back.  His arm swings over and his clenched fist makes perfect contact with her swollen eye.
          She bites down on her split lip and stifles a whimper. 
          She looks at her pillow.  He's drunk.  He's basically unconcious.  What if she just took her pillow and pressed it to his face?  Would he be able to fight back?  He probably wouldn't even wake-up.  Would she be prosecuted?  What if the police saw her and deemed his death accidental.  Too much alcohol mixed with heroine and coccaine.  Surely that would work!
          She slips her hands under her pillow and holds it against her chest. 
          Now or never, she thinks.
          Her chest is rising and falling quickly now.  She's gripping her pillow with white knuckles.          
          All she has to do is press the pillow to his mouth and nose.  He'll suffocate once he begins to struggle.  He won't wake-up.
          Anything is better than this, she thinks.  Prison for the rest of my life would be better than this.  Right?  I mean, it's got to be better than this.  At least there I'd be safer.  It may not be great, but at least it'll be safer.  Right?
          She sits up and slowly edges the pillow toward his sleeping face.
          His eyes suddenly dart open.  He grabs her wrists and throws her off the bed.  She slams into the nightstand.  Her head collides with the corner of the oak furniture. 
         
          She wakes-up on the living room floor.  The blood from her mouth is already dry.  It's stuck to her lips and chin.  She sits up and feels something shift in her side. 
          She looks around herself, confused.  Where is the pillow?
          She sees the clock on the VCR.  It's after five thirty in the morning.  She remembers it now.  They came back from the bar.  He beat her.  Whether he raped her not, she doesn't know.  The heroine has worn off by now.  She's shaking from withdrawal.  It's only been about eight hours since she had some.  She needs it already.
          At this thought, she breaks down and sobs into her palms.  The wet tears falling along her face mix with the blood.  She cries and two steady streams of blood slip along her cheeks and drip off her chin.
          She will never be free from this hell.  The only way out is death.  Eventually, he will kill her.  Whether it's an overdose, or a beating.  He will kill her.  And nothing anyone will ever do can save her.

The Drunk and the Bouncer

       She sits at the bar—alone.  He’s late.  He’s always late.  There was a time that he would arrive early.  But then everything changed.  He became her nightmare.  He’s always late. 
       ‘Better late than early,’ she thinks, taking a sip of her scotch.
       The bar tender smiles at her.  He winks, too.  She looks at her glass and feels her hands tremble.  This stranger is smiling at her.  What if he walks in and sees this guy smiling at her.  What if he walks and sees her not moving away?  She doesn’t even want to think about that situation—once was bad enough.
       “Top it off?”  The bar tender is right in front of her, smiling.
       She shakes her head and takes her half empty glass.  She slips off the bar stool and finds an empty booth in the darkest corner of the room.  Maybe, with any luck, he won’t show up.  Maybe he’ll have found someone else to sleep with tonight.  Maybe he’s already drunk and sleeping it off somewhere.  Maybe he did something—hit a cop—and is now locked away in a cell somewhere.
       Don’t think that! she tells herself, staring into her drink.  You know what happened last time he was arrested.  You don’t want him mad about that.   Remember your ribs?  Remember what he did after he beat you?  Pray that he’s just late again.
       The bar door swings open.  She recognizes the dark silhouette.  His broad shoulders, the scruffy hair, the general incoherence of his movements.  She sighs and slumps in her seat a little.  She waves her hand toward him.  He sees and strides over.
       She watches him.  A waitress walks by him and grabs her ass.  He grins and guffaws.  She sighs and feels her stomach do a back flip as the waitress hits him across the face.
       “Asshole!” she shouts, shoving him a little.
       He’s drunk.  It’s only seven o’clock in the evening and he’s already drunk.  She feels her breath catch as panic settles in for the night.
       He stumbles into the booth and sits beside her.  He wreaks of cheap cigars, rye, beer, and gin.  She sees his eyes—they’re heavy and bloodshot.  He’s been shooting.  And she knows what’s about to happen.
       “Give me your arm,” he growls, pulling something from his jacket pocket.
       She doesn’t move.
       “Give me your arm,” he repeats, his voice stronger and more slurred.
       She still doesn’t move.  She doesn’t want this.  It’s one thing to kick the shit out of her.  It’s one thing to rape her and call it sex.  It’s another to do what he’s about to do.
       He loses his patience and pulls her arm away from her body, pinning it to his leg out of the sight of the people filtering into the dark and dank place.
       She bites her lips and looks away, refusing to let him see her tears.  She feels his hand yanking her sleeve up past her elbow.  She feels the elastic wrap around her arm—the circulation of blood to her fingers begins to slow.  And then she feels that small prick against her skin.  The next instant, it feels as though someone’s pinching her—hard.  
       He laughs a little.  “Not so bad, is it?”  He looks at her, brandishing the empty syringe before her eyes and holding a dirty cotton ball to the small spot of blood at the crook of her elbow.
       She can feel tears slipping along her cheeks.  She hates how he can do this to.  She hates how he so easily injects the heroine into her body.  But, she despises herself for enjoying the drug so much—for needing it so badly.  
       “Don’t cry, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick and slurred.  He takes her chin in his hands, snaps her head so she’s facing him, and kisses her.
       The feel of his lips against hers sends a flood of nausea through her body.  She tries to distance herself from him.  Tries to ignore him as he presses into her body, his fingers digging harshly into her breasts.  
       “Ahem.”
       He moves away and almost growls.  She looks up at a stranger.  The man stands with both arms folded over his chest.  His shirt reads ‘Security’ in big bold letters—white on black.  The shirt sticks to his body—his musculature almost daring anyone to confront him.
       “What the fuck do you want baldy?”  The man beside her slurs even more now—the alcohol and the heroine are working together now.
       The bouncer looks at her.  “Are you all right, Miss?”
       She nods her head and looks down at the table.
       “She’s fine!” snaps the Drunk beside her.  “Get the fuck out of here.”
       The bouncer doesn’t move.  “Miss, are you sure you’re okay?  I can have this gentleman removed if you like.”
       She shakes her head and mumbles an incoherent, “I’m fine.”
       “There!” snarls the Drunk.  “Now get the fuck out of here!”
       The bouncer slowly moves away—though not before cracking the knuckles on his left hand and looking down at the Drunk.
       Once the bouncer is out of sight, she looks back up and stares at a point just above the back wall of the room.  She stares and she bites the inside of her cheek—hard enough that she feels the skin break and tastes the familiarity of thick iron in her mouth.  
       All her thoughts are focussed on the iron filling her mouth, coating her tongue.  She tries desperately to shut away the feel of the Drunk’s harsh and merciless hands on her body.  His fingernails scratch and pierce her body as he fumbles his hands under her shirt.  
       He stands and takes her by the wrist, dragging her away.  
       The bouncer watches them leave the bar.  The Drunk didn’t even pay for his drinks.  The bouncer doesn’t know that.  He’s watching her, with tears falling along her face.  She knows what’s about to happen.  The Drunk’s going to force her to get into his car.  He’s going to drive home.  And then he’ll hit and rape her.  It’s always the same.
       Once upon a time, the heroine dulled her senses enough that she didn’t remember anything.  Now it doesn’t do anything.  She needs more and more of it to get that dulling rush.  Now she remembers everything with the greatest precision.  Now she knows exactly what will happen because she always remembers it.  Every night it’s the same thing.  Every single night.

St-Louis

     “Son of a bitch!” 
     The four words echo through apartment.  The sound of glass shattering over a cheap tiled floor follows.   
     “Get up!” 
     Silence.
     “GET up!”
     Silence.
     “Fucking bitch!”
     Silence.
     The sound of wood colliding with bone.
     “Get the FUCK UP!” 
     Silence.
     “Get up you fucking son of a bit—”
     The voice stops in mid-sentence.  The sound of denim stirring is faint but distinct—the sound of someone crouching down.  A subtle echo of wood on tiles runs through the place.  A second later, heavy boots slam from tiles to wood to carpeting.  A door swings open and slams shut.
     There are no sounds in the apartment anymore.  Nothing stirs.  And then, faintly, a whimper—soft and impossible low.  A spattering sound.  Coughing.  A moan.  A cry. 
     “Keith?”  The voice is small, hurt, terrified.  The one word holds so much emotion.  That one word—a name—carries devastation and death.
     White tiles splattered with blood.  The baseball bat—St-Louis—lies beside a purple and blue forearm.  Two pale eyes look around the room from the floor.  The right eye closes as warm blood trickles around it.  A gash along a pale forehead, which disappears into the soft copper hair—swells and glistens with deep, thick red blood.
     “…Mom…”  The word is small and scared—pleading for help of some form.
     She moves her legs.  The pain isn’t even there anymore.  Nothing is.  She can’t feel anything below her hips.  That scares her.  She fights to move her legs—she can’t feel them move.  She tries to look at them, to see them move, but when her neck muscles pull, fire explodes into her head.
     Her eyes roll back suddenly.  The world becomes very grey, and then very dark.  She feels her hand brush against the hard wood of the baseball bat.                The last thing she’s aware of is the blood painted on her fingers—the blood coating the bat—and the cold in her chest.

Helplessness

                Sometimes, when she’s alone, the shadows in the room take-on dark and sinister shapes.  Any time she’s alone, the voices she hears scream and blame her for what’s happened—for what she allowed to happen.  Now that she is not alone, everything is becoming much more dangerous, much more real.
                She sits in her room, legs held tightly against her chest.  Her chin is pressed against her chest, forehead against her knees, face buried away—she’s trying to hide.  The house doesn’t provide many good hiding places.  She used to be good at hide-and-seek.  Once upon a time, she was never caught.  She could hide for hours and never be found.  Not anymore, though.  Now she’s found without anyone even trying.  THEY can find her with nothing more than a quick thought.  THEY can surprise her while she walks down the street, lunging out of alleyways and tearing her apart—from the inside out.
                THEY have been following her.  She had defeated them.  She had thought to have destroyed these shadows, these demons.  She was wrong.  She didn’t destroy them.  She only delayed them.  And in doing so, she fuelled their anger, their hunger, their desire for revenge.
                Sitting in the one corner of the house, furthest from the front door, she rocks back and forth slowly on the floor.  Her knuckles are white as she grips the legs of her jeans.  Her shoulders are stiff and sore from having been in this pose for so many hours.  Her back is burning, howling against her mind to be released from the crapped position in which it is trapped.
                Clink.  
                The sound of glass on metal.  It echoes softly through the house.  The origin of the small and nearly imperceptible sound is downstairs. 
                She didn’t hear the door open.  She didn’t hear the door close.  She didn’t hear any footsteps.  It’s THEM downstairs.  It’s THEM coming back for her. 
                She tries to scramble for the doorway.  She tries to stand.  Her body protests against the sudden jolting and stretching and fast movements. 
                Her legs tingle and prick.  They’re limp and useless.  She falls to the floor.  Her shoulder makes square and painful contact with the hardwood flooring.  Her head bounces harshly. 
                She can see them now.  The shadows are all around her.  The door is gone.  She’s trapped.
                Their voices bombard her.  She writhes on the floor, trying to escape them but unable to stand—to sit up.  She can feel their claws digging into her skin, tearing at her flesh, piercing into her muscles, and shattering her bones.
                She cries out for help.  She cries out in pain.  She cries out.               
                But no one comes.  No one ever comes.  And it is this helplessness that drives the demons to destroy her slowly.

Never To Sleep Again

A grey mist wafts about the ground.  A damp and heavy rain pummels the dirt, forming lake-like puddles of impossible depth, splashing mud high into the sky.  Deep charcoal-like clouds hang above the earth—ominous and destructive.  The sky itself is a swirling mass of black, silver, and blood red.  Thunder slams across everything, causing the ground to shake.  Lightning slashes through the sky, slamming into the earth and sending chunks of stone and clumps of wet dirt soaring all around.
                I stand in the midst of all this.  Fear is spreading through my body like some sort of ravenous plague.  I can barely breathe.  My heart is slamming against my ribs—as though trying to make an escape from the confinement of my ribcage.
                The mist on the ground begins to swell.  It rises quickly, swallowing me whole.  I can’t see anything now.  My body is shivering from the rain and the frigid wind.
                Suddenly, everything stops.  The rain halts.  The thunder dies.  And the lightning disappears.  The sky calms—though it remains black and blood-like.  The mist settles until it’s only a little more than a foot deep.
                I look around myself, stare at the massive trees.  Their branches are gnarled, twisted, and dead.  There are bodies hanging from the limbs of these dead wooden beasts.  A woman.  A girl. 
                I approach cautiously.  I know better.  Red flags are blinding my vision, demanding that my body stop moving toward the hanging people.  But my curiosity is dragging me forward.  It’s as though a hook is snared in my stomach, dragging me toward the scene.
                My eyes fall to the faces hanging. Dead and hollow eyes stare at her.  Chapped, swollen, blue and purple lips are slightly parted.  Thin lines of thick dried blood are painted along their chins and lips.
                I feel my stomach churn.  I feel a death-like chill slam through my veins.  My eyes are fixed to those of the woman, hanging limply three feet above the ground.  I stares into the dead eyes, at the wounds along the arms, neck, face, and head.  I stare into the hollow and blank eyes of the woman I love.  And then I double over, fall to the ground, into the thick, wet and cold mist. 
                “You have caused this,” says a voice, echoing all around.
                I look up, my arms wrapped around my stomach as I rocks back and forth a little, tears falling along my face.
                The mist rises beside the hanging bodies.  It swirls about, carrying mud, dirt, stone, and blood into the air.  A body begins to form.  Two legs, long and slender.  A torso, thin and strong.  Two arms, cut and harsh.  A head—a face.  Two empty sockets stare down at me.  A cold and sick grin flashes.  Long hair whips around this being’s face and shoulders.  A long and beautifully white gown forms over the body.
                “You caused this,” it says, pointing to the hanging bodies.
                I stare, unable to tear my eyes from the sight.  A deep and complete terror swells in my body.  I can feel my muscles shaking.  I can hear my breathing coming in short and harsh gasps.  I can feel me tears still falling.
                “You killed them!”  It screams the words, drawing a sword and slashing it across the hanging woman’s stomach.
                I stare, wanting to save the dead, but unable to move.  “Who are you?” I mutter hoarsely, staring at the being in white before me.
                “I am you,” it replies, smiling and pointing the sword at the ground.
                “You can’t be me,” I whisper, staring at the Being and then at the woman I love, her body swaying back and forth from the blow to her stomach.
                The Being grins, and the sword disappears.  A small child appears in her arms—a baby.  “But I am,” it says, holding the infant tenderly.  “And I killed them.  Just as you did.  You placed your desires before their safety.  And look at what you caused!”  It screams the last words as the sword appears again.  The gleaming blade pierces into the infant’s stomach.  Blood spills onto the ground, splashing everywhere.
                On the ground, I suddenly stand and make to run.  I have blood on my face, on my hands, and on my chest and stomach.  My feet carry me three strides before something takes hold of my waist.  I feel myself being pulled back—up off the ground.
                “See what your selfishness has done?”  The Being cackles as she drags me to the swaying bodies. 
                I can’t do anything but stare into her dead and cold eyes.  I feel my stomach churning and flipping.  But then I feel something kick.  Something in my stomach kicks me.  The sky begins to clear a little.
                The Being stops laughing and throws me to the ground.  I roll in the mud a little and stand.  I want to destroy this monster, but I can’t.  Three arms have grown from its torso.  Before I can react, I’m dragged back into the mud, into the dead infant’s blood.  Something kicks me from inside my stomach again.
                It laughs at me and grins.  “We killed them.  And now we’ll kill her.”  It’s voice echoes in my ears, sending a terrible pain down my spine.  It’s pointing down to my abdomen.
                Again, before I can do anything, it grabs me.  Two hands pierce into my sides.  One hand stabs into my lower back.  A fourth slices through my front, into my stomach.  The fifth latches onto my throat.  I can feel my windpipe being crushed as four blades meet in my stomach.
                The pain is blinding me.  Tears burn and sting my eyes, slip along my face.  It lasts for eternity.  And then it stops.  I drop to the ground.  Blood is pooling around me.  I see my love’s body slip off the rope tied around her neck.  She stands with no problems, and then steps toward me. 
                The Being laughs, holding a small girl on one of its spear-like hands.  “You have killed your daughter,” it laughs, tossing the dead girl aside. 
                I stare down at the inert body.  My love sits down beside me.  She says nothing. 
                I feel incredibly dizzy.  My head is spinning—the ground is spinning.  Suddenly, the rain begins to pummel me.  It beats down and drowns me.  The woman sitting beside me stands.  And then I see it.  A sword slams through her chest, splashing blood over me.  She falls to the ground, beside the body of my daughter. 
                The Being laughs at me.                I wake—screaming and completely ensnared in my blankets.  My body is drenched in cold sweat.  I stand, leave the room, and decide that I will not sleep again.

      Casual clothes, really. Jeans and a white shirt. Someone must have brought a change of clothes. She wasn’t aware this was allowed. Then again, what does she care? Secretly, she wanted to see him in that orange jumpsuit, with numbers stamped to his back, identifying him as a criminal, a convict, wrong.
      He’s already sitting in the room. A man in blue uniform is behind the chair, standing by the wall at full attention. She notices the badge on his chest. She notices the polished shoes. She notices the young and fresh face. She notices the gun, strapped down in its holster. She wonders if he would react. What if she stepped over to that young man, took his gun, and fired on the monster? Would the men and women in blue react? Would they say it was suicide? Would they say it was murder? Or would they say it was self-defence?
She stands beside her escort—an ex who she never thought would care about any of this. She’s been wrong about Kym many times before.
      Two men step into the room. One is short, squat, and sweating like an over-cooked pig. His head glows under the overhead lights, beads of sweat forming over the stretched skin and trickling down his face and neck. What the hell has he got to be sweating over? His suit is rumpled and very over-worn. He’s got a greyish-white shirt under his grey jacket. The rust and white striped tie he wears is too short and doesn’t help the ensemble at all—his shirt buttons are still visibly straining against the pull of the ramshackle fabric. His pants are a dark grey—two shades darker than his jacket. There’s a stain at mid-thigh, about the size of two quarters. Lovely!
      “Hey,” he says to her, dropping some papers on the table and taking the empty chair to the monster’s left. “How’s it goin’, kid?” He asks the question without so much as looking up at her.
The second man stands a little behind her for a minute or two. He stares down at the monster. He’s got a very Roman-esque profile. Strong nose. Square and straight jaw, always very cleanly shaved. His grey hair is also very well kept—combed back a little with a hint of gel. His suit is black. He hasn’t got a tie on, though. His jacket is clean and crisp. His pants match the jacket perfectly. His shoes shine in the light of the room. His shirt is white—stark white—and there isn’t a single wrinkle anywhere on it.
      He sits down to her left—the monster’s right. “How are you doing?” He speaks softly, with kindness.
      “Fine,” she answers through gritted teeth, staring at the monster in the cuffs and shackles.
      “Last time, hun,” says the Roman softly. “Promise.”
      Kym almost growls, “Fucking better be.”
      “Take a seat,” says Stumpy, wiping his bald head with the back of his sleeve.
      She takes her seat. Kym stands behind her, placing both hands on her ex’s shoulders, squeezing gently—very out of character, really. It’s as though Kym’s saying, “Don’t worry. I’m here. You’re safe.”
      The Roman looks to the monster and the woman. “You both know why you’re here.”
      She nods, her jaw clenched and her eyes not blinking.
      The monster nods and sighs.
      “All right then,” continues the Roman, leafing through some of the papers on the table. He looks up and meets Stumpy’s eyes, “Are you ready to get this finished?” There is a definite edge in the Roman’s voice, as though he despises being here in this room.
      Stumpy nods and shrugs, “Yeah, whatever.” Indifference in this man’s eyes and tone.
      The Roman sighs and stretches a little. His jacket gets caught on the arm of this chair, revealing the handgun securely trapped in the holster against his side.
      “Detective,” says Stumpy, “you have the recorder, right?”
      The Roman sighs and points to a place maybe eighteen inches up and to the right of Stumpy’s elbow. “Right there, Gill.”
      “It’s Crown Attorney, detective,” says Stumpy, puffing out his chest and making a show of his briefcase and visitor Id.
      Kym snarls at this point, “Shut up and get this over with you dickhe—”
      She’s interrupted by the Monster’s soft and disgusting sob. He looks at the woman and sighs, “I’m so sorry about all this.”
“Shut your fucking mouth you piece of shit!” Kym shouts the words, her hands clench around her ex’s shoulders. The cinder bloc-like muscles almost relax a little.
      The Roman speaks in a calm voice to her, “Please Ms. We’ll handle this.” Kym opens her mouth to say something else but the Roman turns to the Monster, “If you say one more word without having been told to speak, you will find yourself out of that lovely little personal cell and in with all the others. Got it?” His voice is dark, threatening, and all-too-serious.
      Stumpy looks up, “Detective, that is a threat.”
      Kym looks to stumpy, “I didn’t hear him say anything.” She looks to the police office standing over at the wall, “Did you hear anything?” The young man shakes his head ‘no’.
      The monster sighs and looks down at his hands, avoiding the woman’s eyes.
      “Now,” says the Roman, pushing the play button on the recorder. “Let’s get this over with.”
      The questioning begins. It lasts two hours. It should have lasted three of four. But it didn’t.
      The woman, halfway through one of the Monster’s teary answers, interrupted him. “Why did you do any of this?”
      The room fell silent. He looked at her and sighed. “I told you that answer.” His voice is small and she almost believes that he feels bad—but she knows him too well to fall for such a ploy.
      She repeats herself, “Why did you keep doing it?”
      He sighs and meets her eyes—she suddenly wants to tear the skin from her bones. “Because I didn’t think it would hurt you this badly.”
Kym says something angry and hateful. The woman doesn’t hear the words. “You knew what it was doing to me. Why did you keep doing it?”
      He repeats the same answer.
      “You’re lying. You’re fucked now. Why don’t you just answer it?” she says again, her jaw clenches tighter now, her knuckles are white under the table.
      He leans forward, his real self coming-out suddenly. There’s a grin on his face, and almost glee in his expression. “You never complained about it.”
      Her face drops. She was not expecting that. At least, she was not expecting it to smash through her like this. It’s as though the floor has opened beneath her feet. Everything suddenly slams through her mind. Her nerves ignite. Her bones feel as though they’re being shattered again.
      Something isn’t right. Everyone in the room sees it. Kym is the only one who reacts. She lunges for a garbage can, spins her friend’s chair, and says nothing as the young woman is violently sick.
      A few minutes pass and the woman tries to catch her breath. Kym glowers at the Monster.
      “She asked,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a smile on his face.
      Kym says nothing. She helps her friend to stand, whispers softly in the other’s ear. “We’re done,” she says to the room.
      Stumpy jumps up, “We’re not done! We’ve still got more questions to do through. We—”
      The Roman stands slowly, “Take her home. We’re done for tonight.”
      Kym looks him in the eye. “No. You’re done for good. She’s not coming back here. If you need her to come here, you can lie on your fucking statements. She’s not coming back here.” Kym looks to the Monster and almost hisses the words, “If I ever see you again.” She kicks the table and the recorder falls to the floor, the tape popping out, “I’ll run you down in the street.”
      Stumpy is now almost hopping around trying to figure out how to stop this madwoman from pulling his star witness—his only witness—from the room. The Roman says nothing as he opens the door for them both. “Thanks for coming in,” he says, his voice apologetic.
      They leave the station and hop into a cab. Kym—still very much out of character—sighs and hugs her friend. “It’s done, okay?”
      “They still need—”
      “No. It’s done. You’re not going back there.”
      “Kym, they still—”
      Kym sighs, “We didn’t work out very well. I know I’m to blame for that entire train wreck. But I’m not about to let that fuck screw you up again. You’re not going back there. They’ve got everything they need. They’ve got all their reaction bullshit things. You’re done. You’re not going back. And that’s the end of the discussion.”
      “It’s not that simple—”
      “I know it’s not that simple. But it’s too bad. If you so much as answer a phone call from any of those people, I will kick your ass seven ways from Sunday.” She sighs and hugs her friend again. “I know I’m not her, but I do care about you. All right? Just don’t come back here, hun. I don’t want to see you hurt anymore.”

Conversations

      Casual clothes, really. Jeans and a white shirt. Someone must have brought a change of clothes. She wasn’t aware this was allowed. Then again, what does she care? Secretly, she wanted to see him in that orange jumpsuit, with numbers stamped to his back, identifying him as a criminal, a convict, wrong.
      He’s already sitting in the room. A man in blue uniform is behind the chair, standing by the wall at full attention. She notices the badge on his chest. She notices the polished shoes. She notices the young and fresh face. She notices the gun, strapped down in its holster. She wonders if he would react. What if she stepped over to that young man, took his gun, and fired on the monster? Would the men and women in blue react? Would they say it was suicide? Would they say it was murder? Or would they say it was self-defence?
She stands beside her escort—an ex who she never thought would care about any of this. She’s been wrong about Kym many times before.
      Two men step into the room. One is short, squat, and sweating like an over-cooked pig. His head glows under the overhead lights, beads of sweat forming over the stretched skin and trickling down his face and neck. What the hell has he got to be sweating over? His suit is rumpled and very over-worn. He’s got a greyish-white shirt under his grey jacket. The rust and white striped tie he wears is too short and doesn’t help the ensemble at all—his shirt buttons are still visibly straining against the pull of the ramshackle fabric. His pants are a dark grey—two shades darker than his jacket. There’s a stain at mid-thigh, about the size of two quarters. Lovely!
      “Hey,” he says to her, dropping some papers on the table and taking the empty chair to the monster’s left. “How’s it goin’, kid?” He asks the question without so much as looking up at her.
The second man stands a little behind her for a minute or two. He stares down at the monster. He’s got a very Roman-esque profile. Strong nose. Square and straight jaw, always very cleanly shaved. His grey hair is also very well kept—combed back a little with a hint of gel. His suit is black. He hasn’t got a tie on, though. His jacket is clean and crisp. His pants match the jacket perfectly. His shoes shine in the light of the room. His shirt is white—stark white—and there isn’t a single wrinkle anywhere on it.
      He sits down to her left—the monster’s right. “How are you doing?” He speaks softly, with kindness.
      “Fine,” she answers through gritted teeth, staring at the monster in the cuffs and shackles.
      “Last time, hun,” says the Roman softly. “Promise.”
      Kym almost growls, “Fucking better be.”
      “Take a seat,” says Stumpy, wiping his bald head with the back of his sleeve.
      She takes her seat. Kym stands behind her, placing both hands on her ex’s shoulders, squeezing gently—very out of character, really. It’s as though Kym’s saying, “Don’t worry. I’m here. You’re safe.”
      The Roman looks to the monster and the woman. “You both know why you’re here.”
      She nods, her jaw clenched and her eyes not blinking.
      The monster nods and sighs.
      “All right then,” continues the Roman, leafing through some of the papers on the table. He looks up and meets Stumpy’s eyes, “Are you ready to get this finished?” There is a definite edge in the Roman’s voice, as though he despises being here in this room.
      Stumpy nods and shrugs, “Yeah, whatever.” Indifference in this man’s eyes and tone.
      The Roman sighs and stretches a little. His jacket gets caught on the arm of this chair, revealing the handgun securely trapped in the holster against his side.
      “Detective,” says Stumpy, “you have the recorder, right?”
      The Roman sighs and points to a place maybe eighteen inches up and to the right of Stumpy’s elbow. “Right there, Gill.”
      “It’s Crown Attorney, detective,” says Stumpy, puffing out his chest and making a show of his briefcase and visitor Id.
      Kym snarls at this point, “Shut up and get this over with you dickhe—”
      She’s interrupted by the Monster’s soft and disgusting sob. He looks at the woman and sighs, “I’m so sorry about all this.”
“Shut your fucking mouth you piece of shit!” Kym shouts the words, her hands clench around her ex’s shoulders. The cinder bloc-like muscles almost relax a little.
      The Roman speaks in a calm voice to her, “Please Ms. We’ll handle this.” Kym opens her mouth to say something else but the Roman turns to the Monster, “If you say one more word without having been told to speak, you will find yourself out of that lovely little personal cell and in with all the others. Got it?” His voice is dark, threatening, and all-too-serious.
      Stumpy looks up, “Detective, that is a threat.”
      Kym looks to stumpy, “I didn’t hear him say anything.” She looks to the police office standing over at the wall, “Did you hear anything?” The young man shakes his head ‘no’.
      The monster sighs and looks down at his hands, avoiding the woman’s eyes.
      “Now,” says the Roman, pushing the play button on the recorder. “Let’s get this over with.”
      The questioning begins. It lasts two hours. It should have lasted three of four. But it didn’t.
      The woman, halfway through one of the Monster’s teary answers, interrupted him. “Why did you do any of this?”
      The room fell silent. He looked at her and sighed. “I told you that answer.” His voice is small and she almost believes that he feels bad—but she knows him too well to fall for such a ploy.
      She repeats herself, “Why did you keep doing it?”
      He sighs and meets her eyes—she suddenly wants to tear the skin from her bones. “Because I didn’t think it would hurt you this badly.”
Kym says something angry and hateful. The woman doesn’t hear the words. “You knew what it was doing to me. Why did you keep doing it?”
      He repeats the same answer.
      “You’re lying. You’re fucked now. Why don’t you just answer it?” she says again, her jaw clenches tighter now, her knuckles are white under the table.
      He leans forward, his real self coming-out suddenly. There’s a grin on his face, and almost glee in his expression. “You never complained about it.”
      Her face drops. She was not expecting that. At least, she was not expecting it to smash through her like this. It’s as though the floor has opened beneath her feet. Everything suddenly slams through her mind. Her nerves ignite. Her bones feel as though they’re being shattered again.
      Something isn’t right. Everyone in the room sees it. Kym is the only one who reacts. She lunges for a garbage can, spins her friend’s chair, and says nothing as the young woman is violently sick.
      A few minutes pass and the woman tries to catch her breath. Kym glowers at the Monster.
      “She asked,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a smile on his face.
      Kym says nothing. She helps her friend to stand, whispers softly in the other’s ear. “We’re done,” she says to the room.
      Stumpy jumps up, “We’re not done! We’ve still got more questions to do through. We—”
      The Roman stands slowly, “Take her home. We’re done for tonight.”
      Kym looks him in the eye. “No. You’re done for good. She’s not coming back here. If you need her to come here, you can lie on your fucking statements. She’s not coming back here.” Kym looks to the Monster and almost hisses the words, “If I ever see you again.” She kicks the table and the recorder falls to the floor, the tape popping out, “I’ll run you down in the street.”
      Stumpy is now almost hopping around trying to figure out how to stop this madwoman from pulling his star witness—his only witness—from the room. The Roman says nothing as he opens the door for them both. “Thanks for coming in,” he says, his voice apologetic.
      They leave the station and hop into a cab. Kym—still very much out of character—sighs and hugs her friend. “It’s done, okay?”
      “They still need—”
      “No. It’s done. You’re not going back there.”
      “Kym, they still—”
      Kym sighs, “We didn’t work out very well. I know I’m to blame for that entire train wreck. But I’m not about to let that fuck screw you up again. You’re not going back there. They’ve got everything they need. They’ve got all their reaction bullshit things. You’re done. You’re not going back. And that’s the end of the discussion.”
      “It’s not that simple—”
      “I know it’s not that simple. But it’s too bad. If you so much as answer a phone call from any of those people, I will kick your ass seven ways from Sunday.” She sighs and hugs her friend again. “I know I’m not her, but I do care about you. All right? Just don’t come back here, hun. I don’t want to see you hurt anymore.”

Of Bruises and Beds

    “Jesus Christ.”
    Ah yes, the eternal and all-encompassing declaration of shock and anger. I turn and see Em step into the ward. All I can do is smile at her. “Hey.”
    “Hey?” she says, stepping toward me in something of a mad rush. “Jesus Christ! What—what the fuck happened to you?”
    Immediately, my eyes fall to the floor as I start to scratch at the brace that’s now holding my wrist. I don’t want to answer her. I really don’t want to answer her. There are two reasons for this. the first being that I’m embarrassed and ashamed. Stupid reaction I’m sure, but stupidity tends to take control of me rather often. The second reason is a little more considerable. This young woman is twenty-one years old. She’s been one of my closest friends for five years. Her name is Emilia Poikayer. She is Keith’s younger sister. What would your reaction be if you were told that the beaten woman in front of you was the direct product of your brother’s temper?
    She stands right in front of me and very closely and carefully scrutinizes every inch of my face. The bruising isn’t as bad as I originally thought. It’s just a dull blue with a hint of green. Even then, it’s not bad at all. “What happened?” she asks, her voice soft and a little fearful. She knows that I was at her brother’s place tonight.
    Finally, I look up at her and grit my teeth. “Keith hit me.”
    “He did WHAT?”
    I almost choke at her reaction. I assumed that she would stare at me and call me a damn liar. I didn’t think she’d believe me right off the top like this. “He hit me,” I repeat, my voice soft and very mouse like.
    She stares at the bruise on my face, at the brace on my wrist, the bandages on my chest, and then the tenser bandage around my knee. I suddenly realize just how pathetically made these hospital gowns are. “He did more than hit you! Looks like he beat the living shit out of you! I swear to God that when I see him, I’m gonna KILL HIM!”
    I can’t help but smile softly at her reaction. It’s a little comforting. “Who drove you in?”
    “Cabby,” she answers, lifting her hand to touch the bruise on my face. I shift and move from her outstretched fingers. “Sorry.” Her voice wavers sharply and she looks as though on the verge of telling me something.
    “What?”
    “Driver was nice,” she says, forcing a smile on her face.
    “Em?”
    She turns her back to me and crosses her arms over her chest. I can hear her crying softly.
    “Em?” I ask softly, standing from the bed and tossing a housecoat over my half-assed gown. “Em what the hell is it?”
    “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, wiping her tears with a furious motion. She turns and looks at me so much self-hatred it almost scares me.
    “Don’t be sorry.”
    She looks away for a minute and then turns back to me. “I have to be. He’s my brother.”
    “So what? So what if he’s your brother? He’s also an adult and he’s responsible for his own damn actions!” I can feel a deep and resounding rage building within my very soul. For some reason, I have a horrible sense that this is going to be some very misplaced anger.
    Em looks at me and smiles weakly. “At least you get the day off.”