"Williams County Dispatch," said the man on the other line like he had done so many times before. I was confident in my mission before I called, but after he picked up the line I was hesitant to speak.
I forced myself to croak out a few words that came out almost as a whisper, "Is Officer Johnson working?"
I was secretly hoping he wasn't, because what would I say? What could I say without sounding completely pathetic/strange/insane? I imagined something to the effect of, "Oh, hai. How are you? The wife? Kids? Do you remember that time that my neighbors called you because my son's dad was beating the holy Hell out of me in my driveway? No, after that. Yeah, that day. Well, you came out and took those pictures of me with all the blood and bruises. Yeah, I know I refused to file a report, but do you happen to have those? I would like a copy, ya know, for my scrapbook."
I just really don't think that would sound, umm, normal? Is that normal? It's not to me.
Why do I even want to see those photographs? I remember the day like it was yesterday. My God, how could I forget? Do I really need the photographs to add to the experience?
Some strange force inside of me wants to view with my eyes what this man did to me. It's just been a couple of years, but I couldn't see it back then. At least not with my eyes, only with my heart. I want to see the look on my face and the bruise that covered the whole left side of it. Did he really hit me in the side of the head so hard to bruise the inside of my ear?
Yes, he did. And now? Now, three years later he wants visitation rights to my son.
