*Trigger warning: There are references to sexual assault in this story*
“Someone did you wrong, is that right?” the Sheriff asked with his slow southern accent. His elbows were propped on the scratched and dented metal table. Didn’t anyone ever tell him it’s not polite to have your elbows on the table?
“Yes, sir,” I answered, my eyes fixed on his large elbows. Those elbows are probably what put the dents in this table.
“Did they hurt you?” He shifted his elbows and it creaked under the pressure. Damn, now that song is going to be stuck in my head. You know, the good one, by David Bowie.
“Yes, sir.” I wanted so badly to tell him to move his elbows off the table, but it isn’t proper to say such a thing in such a situation as this. I just couldn’t stop fixating on it. Mama always said when you’re fixating on something, you need to give it over to Jesus. A lot of good that would do me. I don’t think even Jesus can save me now.
“Is the person who hurt you the same person you killed?” the Sheriff’s voice was loaded with a mix of sympathy and determination to get answers. Bless his heart, he was just trying to do his job.
“No, sir.” I responded, relishing in the twitch of the Sheriff’s eye, the small frown forming at his lips. He was never going to understand why I did what I did. But maybe you can. Continue reading