Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Feel (emotions) (08/26/10)
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TITLE: Guilt | Previous Challenge Entry
By Kaylee Blake
09/02/10 -
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Prison. What an interesting word. It’s only fitting that I’m held captive in this stale closet. Had I cooperated years ago, taking my story to the proper authorities, then I wouldn’t be here now. And then maybe my sister…
I bury my hands in my jacket pocket and wrap myself tight in a hug. It’s not cold in here. My stomach just won’t stop tying itself in knots.
Knots. Like the tangled, gut-wrenching situation upon all of us now, made worse by my prolonged silence. But would anyone have believed…
I look up at the camera in the upper left corner of the room. They didn’t even try to disguise it. It was just screwed into the wall, pointed at me, staring at me. I had been told it was a live feed and a detective would be watching, with my father.
Dad. What was he thinking? Did he ever think the day would come when his own daughter had to be drug into his police station to give a statement? How many times had he watched this room before, a mere officer, upholder of the law, objective and strong? How was he…
I glance at my feet, tearing my gaze away from the camera. I’m wearing sweatpants, too short, you can see my socks. I hate sweatpants, and I despise any pant that is too short. It gives the illusion I’m even more freakishly tall.
Tall. An image of a six foot two white man, long, wiry beard, and large, rough hands assaults my brain, but I push the thought away quickly. There was a time when I had been good a nipping such thoughts in the bud, until these past few days had….
I reach out and touch the table. Again, I consider scooting towards the table, so that my feet are under and I could lean my arms on the table, but that would put the door on my right and behind me. I much more prefer to see all exits and the comings and goings. An advantage for tactics and safety.
Safety. Because facing a door sure worked out for me once before. Then again, I was so young, so naïve. Who was I to suspect family…
Despite having the door in plain sight, I still jump when a buzzer sounds and it’s pulled open by a woman dressed in dark slacks and a button up shirt. With a badge hanging around her neck.
She walks to the table and sits down in the chair across from me, placing something on the table. A voice recorder. She smiles and I think it was supposed to be gentle and comforting, but I only notice the grief.
“Hi, Joy. I’m Debbie. How are you?”
“Good.” Lie. But I follow social norms and reciprocate, “How are you?”
“Alright…” Pause. “You know why you’re here, right?”
Nod.
“I’m going to turn on the recording device to document our conversation. Ok?”
Another nod.
Click.
While Debbie goes through some necessary information for the record, I space out. This is really happening. It’s not just something you would see sitting at home, on your couch, eating popcorn and watching NCIS. No, I’m really here. In this prison, forced to face events I had suppressed and excused long ago. I’m being forced to communicate. And to feel again.
“…take your time, I know this is hard.” Debbie pauses again, studying my face. “Where did your uncle touch you?”
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