The man I have never met before...

[I just re-read my story. Among other things, it needs some sort of preface to make sense. I was inspired by a practice in Oklahoma where bikers escort abuse victims to court. I didn’t enter this writing to the contest. In hindsight, I would have revealed the nature of the inspiration somewhere in the text. If someone reads this thing, perhaps they could share ideas about giving this writing a little more clarity. I suppose I write ‘feelings’ more than substance, but a story needs both - and I am a mere casual writer without true aspirations in the field. I could have started the story with some introduction of Chapter whatever of some random Biker group. There was a version (edited out) where Robert and the judge have a conversation. I couldn’t find a way to include this without harming the pace, and it took me too far from the main character. Writing is hard, am I right?]

[[After reading Ms. Stansfield's input, I modified the story. I will capture the edit with double brackets. As I pondered, I fell into the image of this little girl traveling the River Styx. Later, without brackets, I modified the description of the courthouse to resemble Hades, evoking a cave-like entrance propped up by silver pillars.]]

SNAP.

Don't move. Don't get angry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

The broken pink Crayola slides away from my fingers and is replaced by a new one. Mom rubs my back and offers a soothing "'shhhhh,' it's going to be ok."

[["Robert and his friends will be here soon. They will be taking you to the courthouse, to ensure safe passage," mom says. "When children or wives or mothers are going through a lot, these men, who are part of a club, make sure you get to where you need to be, safely."

"Safe passage?" I contemplate. Am I not safe here? No. Surely not. A storm rattles my brain and signals there will be no peace should I remain. I will, must, trust mom and travel outside, underworld by the inviolable waters of Styx.]]

I continue drawing the bunny's ears. Pressing hard, reworking the lines over and over and over.

I am unmatched jigsaw puzzle pieces. Each a fragment of some greater picture, but nothing fits to make sense of it all. Every part of me having its own purpose; a separate agenda. These eyes a mere passive observer as this hand pulls the crayon across the page. This nose charged with smelling-out inconspicuous odors. These ears, a sonar, prepared to alert for approaching dangers.

* "She's just sensitive" someone once said. *

From the kitchen to the screen door, back to the kitchen, back to the screen door, back to the kitchen, back to the screen door. The pacing's kinesthetic energy, the ebb and flow mom's perfume wafting and waning, and her heels softly thumping across the carpet. Calming repetition.

Just beyond the paper, raspberry juice trembles in a clear glass. Outside, a rumbling approaches, like a steady wave of growing thunder. A company of tanks, I imagine, idles outside. Then… silence. "They're here. Come on, precious," Mom calls.

I finish the line, carefully placing the crayon not perfectly enough aligned to the page's edge. I walk to mom, ducking under her arm and squeeze between her and the screen door.

* "It's just her imagination," someone once said. *

The biggest man I've ever seen dismounts a flat-grey motorcycle. Scuffed black leather boots follow the walkway, staying in the lines. Despite the heat, the man wears a heavy denim jacket, decorated with unusual patches; a fire-breathing dragon, skulls, and peculiar sorts of symbols. At the door, he bends at his waist and looks at me through the screen. "Hello, Maria," he says with an unexpectedly soft voice. He apparently knows me, but I don't know him. The man's thick, bushy brown beard nearly hides a tattoo-covered neck. His face, dripping in sweat, is marked with more tattoos. He looks scary, but his eyes are bright and shine with some sort of kindness.

Mom pushes the screen door open with her right hand and, with the other, nudges me through the doorway. "We've got her. She's in good hands," the man assures mom. "Thank you, Robert," mom says anxiously.

"Are you ready, pretty one?" he asks. 

* "Just tell the truth," they said. *

I say nothing. Robert extends his hand and I lose mine in that giant paw. I look straightway to the motorcycle, and we walk side-by-side, staying in the lines. I scrunch my nose and give a sour face as motor exhaust cuts the spring air.

Robert lifts me, straps on fasteners, and puts a pink Hello Kitty helmet on my head. "Wrap your arms around me" he says. I grab him, digging my fingers into the rough denim, avoiding the metal zippers. My cheek rests against a patch of a helmet-wearing skull affixed to his back. He smells like cigarettes.

The ignition turns, and the machine rumbles like a personal earthquake. My body trembles but I am not afraid. Behind us, the caravan of motorcycles awakens. I imagine this is how jets sound as they prepare for war.

* "You're a brave little girl" they said. *

Robert raises his forearm, and we creep forward. Mom stands just outside the corner of my eyes. She is pretending to be strong. Everyone pretends. "I will meet you there, precious. I love you. I love you," she calls. I think my face is broken. I want to smile, reassure mom, but my cheek presses emotionless against Robert's jacket. We depart, and mom disappears. 

We cross the railroad tracks, thumping as we pass, and then turn onto the louder road. Route 66, I believe it's called. Air rushes past, and my hair flitters from under the helmet. Beneath the tires, echoes the rhythmic sound of thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud. I close my eyes and rest.

People stop and stare at this procession. I see a mother and child on the sidewalk. The mother brings her child's head to hip, gently covering her other ear. The little girl looks how others might see me. Delicate. Fragile. There's no way knowing whether she has seen what I have. If her dress hides bruises. If there is still skin under her nails. If her eyes peer over the blanket at night, and only close when the body finally shuts down.

We pass an older man wearing a green veteran's hat. He stops, stands at attention, and salutes. Grim-faced and weathered, his scars obvious, telling a story. No interrogation needed. No pitiful expression; no daily, "How are you feeling, sweet heart"; no empty promises. He survived or is surviving. Leave him be. I miss my grandfather. I hate my daddy. I love my daddy.

* "You didn't do anything wrong" a notepad carrying lady once said. *

As we travel, cars pull away on both sides of the road. We enter town, and a police car flashing blue sits under red traffic lights. Noticeably unnoticed. There are times that beg for our eyes, but we are told not to stare. A terrible accident, a crippled man begging, a rambling old woman. Who, among the neglected, am I?

The police station sits to our right. I've been there many times. So many hours, days in a cold, bare room. The notepad carrying lady (I forget her name) speaks to me like a childless aunt. Too many questions, and too many 'activities' with blocks, puzzles, pictures and dolls. "First you do this, and then you can do that," the echoes of our time.

I liked Officer Cindy better; she was fun and has a mother's voice. She let me draw whatever I wanted, and we made silly faces at a large mirror hanging on the wall. Officer Styles was my favorite. The first time I saw him, his shouts scattered the room just outside ours. But his grumpiness faded with me. I sat on his shoulders exploring the building. Each day, he brought chocolate milk, coloring books and candy bars. On my birthday, I received gifts from 'all of us at the department,' finely wrapped and decorated with pretty, pink bows.

We pull into a parking lot at the rear of the station. A smaller building sits there with tall silver-like columns and set of long, steep stairs leading large oak doors, like the mouth of an implacable cave. Robert says something, but I can't hear. The motorcycle shuts down and he says, "This is the courthouse. You haven't been here before, right?" I say nothing, but it's true. I've never been at a courthouse. For several months mom and other people, like notepad lady, told me about this place.

* "It's almost over" they said. *

"Judge McCaffrey is a good man," Robert says. I look up at him. "Me and the judge didn't always get along. He was hard on me. But he's hard on you when you're bad, but good to you when you're good. You are good." I think Robert believes this.

"Will you come inside?" I whisper. I'm unsure whether the words leave my mouth or, if they did, whether Robert understood me. I reach for Robert's hand, he smiles, and we continue.

Robert patiently waits while I climb foot-by-foot, step-by-step. Three huge men wearing similar denim jackets lead us. Their mere presence push forward, an unseen force clearing the path, parting bodies.

We are met by two uniformed police officers. The men are saying something, but I only hear muffled voices echoing against the walls and fancy black shoes and red heels pattering loudly against the marble floors.

I am brought to a chair beside the judge. Below, beside by three men in black suits, sits my father wearing an orange jumpsuit and chains upon his wrists and ankles. I have never seen him from this angle. So high above. He looks small. Sadness is shone when our eyes meet, but I see the familiar hatred, black eyes scanning the room. The judge, the guards, Robert, and mom - who sits alone at the back staring at the floor. 

"Is your father in the room?" the judge asks. I nod.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

I nod.

"For the record, the witness affirms."

"Maria, please point to your father."

I watch as my arms raises and my finger points to daddy. "Yes" I think. "There is my daddy, this weak, shackled man that I have never met before."