Sitting quietly at the bay window seat, I listened to the soft patter of raindrops against the windowpane. My head had tilted in weariness long before, and now my temple seemed to cling to the cool firm glass. Muttering in frustration, I continued my one sided staring contest with the blank page. Stupid journal. I could feel the vast, starkly bare, dismally beige pages mocking me. I crinkled my nose imagining a few of Dr. Theresa’s favorite phrases, in her nasal squeaky voice, “Pain and crisis tests us, but we have to open up to our feelings. Crisis builds character, but you have to express and accept your feelings. Let it out, validate it, or how will you ever truly heal or grow?” Heal my ass! I just wanted to get this stupid assignment done with. I mean seriously, whose therapist gives them homework? Writing in a journal is a private activity, not something mandated and monitored by a therapist. Besides, if this is the kind of thing you have to go through to build character, then fuck it, I’d rather be boring and shallow any day. I found my teeth digging into my lower lip. A tiny voice seemed to echo in my mind, if this was so trivial, why did my hand freeze every time I put the pen to the page?
I squirmed around, unable to find a comfortable position amongst the sea of plaid and satin pillows. This wasn’t writers block, that was for certain. I was tired of lying to myself, but I was more anxious about the consequences if I stopped. I could sense the root of my hesitation, the unseen culprit. I could feel it slithering under my skin, slinking its way up to the surface just enough to smother any words that might come. I had built up walls to keep me safe from this beast. Thick sturdy walls, who cared if the bricks were humor, denial, and false confidence? They were there, shielding and protecting me from the emotion. I didn’t want to touch the pen to the paper, to dismantle that protection brick by brick. I began to mentally bargain and compromise with myself. Maybe I could just try thinking about that night, just bit by bit. I began going over small details but then quickly shoved them from my mind at the first sign of a panic attack. Ok, maybe I can’t write about that yet. Maybe I could start with the aftermath, that might be easier. Feeling rigid tension in my hand, I realized I had been clutching the pen so tightly my knuckles were turning white. I put the pen and journal down. Perhaps it would be best just to sit and think first. Think, remember, and then deal with writing later. That seemed fair enough, Dr. Theresa couldn’t object to that? I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, and braced myself as a sledgehammer began knocking down my walls.
The lights buzzed, emitting a low drone. The wash of florescent light in the room had been harsh, washing out any sense of warmth or comfort. Not that anyone would feel warm or comfortable there. It wasn’t’ how I would have pictured it. The state police station house was bleak and bare, the walls painted a harsh, sterile white. I sat nervously in a ratty green computer chair. The upholstery was worn thing, pilling at the edges. I wondered who had sat here before me, how many countless others had awkwardly waited in this very spot. Had they nervously rocked in the chair like I did, until it groaned embarrassingly with old age? I peered around nervously, anything to keep me occupied and composed. The scent, there’s something. It smelt like dust and stale air, but what exactly makes air smell or feel stale? I kept looking around finding things to overanalyze and distract me from the shocking reality of my visit. Where were was all the hustle and bustle of phones ringing and filing cabinet drawers being slammed shut? My little fantasy world quickly ceased to be as the loud echo of approaching feet could be heard from down the corridor.
I sat up straight, smoothed over my hair quickly. My desperate desire to portray the picture of a composed, mature adult was merely fueling the anxiety that was churning and brewing within my stomach. I could hear voices from the hall,
“Mmmhmm, she’s in there alright.”
I held my breath for a moment as the investigator entered, and as I released the air from my lungs I felt any hope and sense of assurance I had escape with it. Approaching me was a tall, gangly, pathetic specimen of a man. His hair was thinning and the few coarse strands that remained were combed across his egg shaped head. I’m sure my shock read on my face. It was impossible to hide. I was utterly disappointed, and somehow annoyed. This was the investigator?! Where’s Stabler from Law and Order SVU? He’s supposed to be some large intimidating cop who is willing to beat confessions out of criminals, all the while having a soft spot reserved in his heart for victims. I want the cliché! Instead I ended up with Icabod Crane. This was wrong, this was all wrong. To make matters even worse, as he made his finals steps to the desk I realized that his boots were squeaking. Every step he took caused the leather on his boots to rub together, emitting a high-pitched squeak. My face grew hot and I could feel the tears welling up and burning in my eyes. The emotions of the past week were just swelling up, ready to swallow me whole at any moment. I was going to lose it and just burst out sobbing right there. I had wanted a savior. This just isn’t going to work, who can respect a man who squeaks when he walks?
He stood over me, and I peered up at him uncertainly. His beady little eyes seemed to burrow straight through me, and I shifted in my seat nervously. He sat across from me, and proceeded to display a disturbingly crooked smile. It caused the skin at the edges of his mouth to stretch eerily. He spoke, his voice like a raspy purr.
“Hello there, my name is Detective Buren”
I managed a small anxious small.
“So Trooper Evans updated me on your little situation, and I think we have some things to discuss.”
I nodded eagerly, trying to harness whatever sense of composure I had desired to portray. I lightly toyed with a burgundy thread at the base of my sweater. Pulling and tugging on it, I anxiously listened.
“You know, being a college town we see a lot of these kinds of situations. To be frank with you, the majority of them just don’t pan out. I’m not saying that you’re lying, but there seem to be a lot of factors at play here: the fact that you waited a full week to file an official report, the activities that took place that evening preceding the event. Perhaps this is something that was a misunderstanding and could be worked out civilly.”
I must have looked like a deer in headlights. He grinned at me, seeming to leer across the desk.
“Why don’t you just think it over and get to us m’kay? I mean the DA doesn’t regularly pursue cases with such a lack of physical evidence. Besides, who wants to dig into all the alcohol and drugs business? I don’t know many kids who would want to put their parents through that hoop” he ended with a mild snicker.
I was floored, dumbfounded. He peered at me, as if waiting for me to sob, but I merely sat silently as this bubbling sense of rage welled within me. I was expecting him to be blunt, but he was sounding more like a defense lawyer than an investigator. I had been mistaken, I did get the cliché, just the small town jerk one. It took so much effort not to raise my voice, but I spoke calmly, weighing the value of each word.
“Investigator Buren, I appreciate your opinion, but my mind is made up. My Dad is an attorney, and his mind is made up too. So if I could please file that report now, we’d appreciate it.” I stared at him, hoping that my proactive, assertive facade would hold up long enough to get me through this.
Buren’s intense gaze surely shifted to a scowl and he muttered “Alrighty then, I’ll interview him but no guarantees.”
He pushed his chair back abruptly and left muttering something about getting forms. My fingers unclenched, and as I released the thread I had been relentlessly fidgeting with, I saw that I had unraveled the bottom hem of my sweater.
I opened my eyes, letting the image of the station house fade away. My gaze was now resting once again on the blank Moleskine page. That wasn’t so bad, I was able to think about it. But could I write about it? My hand quivered slightly as I put the pen tip to the page. It stayed for what seemed to be forever, but when it moved it glided upon the surface, jet-black ink drying in swirls and twists. I let out a tiny sigh, of relief, and of disappointment. I tried to comfort myself thinking that it was better than nothing, but I knew that I was once again lying to myself and avoiding the truth. I looked down at my end result, in the center of the page, standing alone on its own, little black letters proclaimed:
“State troopers have noisy boots.”
