Lampshade

(TW: Swearing)

“Leave us. We have all the time in the world.” I raise an eyebrow as the man sitting across from me gestures for the guard next to him to exit the room. The lamp flickers on the near broken table between us. “So. Maeve. What’s going on?” The man fiddles with his fingers and adjusts his glasses to read a poorly-stapled file. “You’ve committed assault against three seemingly innocent people in the past month. I feel I have a right to ask…what’s happening in your head right now?” I don’t answer. My head, huh? He really wants to know what’s going on in my head? I blink back tears, which is stupid, just stupid. This isn’t therapy. It’s a police station. And the two are very, very different. I open my mouth. Close it. Then open it again.

“My dad died in August.” My voice sounds different from what it used to be. Back when he was in my life. “Everything’s a bit harder.”

“This isn’t therapy, Simmons, and if it was, I’d probably be fired by now.”

“Let me get to the point. Jesus.” I roll my eyes. Cops. They never understand. “My dad taught me to be wary of everything and everyone. Never trust anyone unless they can prove it to you, that sort of thing.”

“And these men you assaulted…you didn’t trust them?”

“No,” I give a sharp glance towards the man, “they betrayed my trust.” The man settles in his seat with a long sigh.

“And how exactly did they do that?” I let the tears fall this time. I’m too tired to hold them back.

“After my dad died…I wanted someone to cling onto, I guess. My mom never was around much, so I didn’t really have a maternal figure. I wanted to find someone who could bring me that same comfort. And for a while, I thought they did. They were all nice. All kind, amazing people who treated me like anyone should treat their partner.”

“Not seeing the big picture here, Simmons.”

“Let me finish, god fucking dammit.” I snap. He recoils and doesn’t say a word. “But they slowly, one by one…changed. They said…” I gulped, “awful things to me. Did awful things to me. It was something I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. It was like a cycle - one would break me, I would look for another in desperation, they would break me, and so on, and so on.”

“So…you wanted revenge?”

“No.” I say this furiously. “I did it so they knew the anger and fear and hatred and sadness and literal depression I was holding in. I did it so they knew how it felt to be given a black eye for screwing up. I did it so they fucking knew how it felt to be forced to deal with the pain, the words, the feeling of worthlessness. Being told, “Hey, you’re shitty scum, idiot.” I did it so they knew how they hurt me. I did it so they could be hurt back.” I start to spiral and spin out of control. I spit out random slurs and curse them to die in hell, die in any form and I would not be sad, not even a drop of sympathy, no. My eyes pool with tears and I wipe them away with the back of my palm angrily. The man watches all of this silently. When I’m finished and holding my head in my hands, he sighs.

“That’s a horrible thing to have happened to you. I get it. My sister went through the same.” He looks me in the eye and gives me a sad smile of pity. “I’ll let you off this time, but…see someone about this. It says you’re going to therapy?” He taps the file in his hands.

“Nah. I’m kind of…broke. I couldn’t pay for it anymore.”

“Why not free group sessions? You could get to know someone who’s gone through something similar.” I think about it. Last time I did a group session, someone told me I was a whore and that I shouldn’t be complaining.

“I’ll think about it,” I say meekly. “Thanks…uh….”

“I’m Griffin,” he smiles and puts out a hand. It’s now, in the light, I see him properly. He has wavy hazelnut hair and emerald green eyes that glow like a cat’s. His smile is probably the brightest thing in the room. I hesitantly shake his hand. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to fraternise with the person I’m supposed to be interrogating. I’m pretty new around here - the other guys just told me to call you by your last name and act stern.” I chuckle.

“I’m sure you’re fine.”

“Thanks. And uh, call the office if you want to talk.” I nod and stand up.

“Thank you for the offer, Griffin.”

“My pleasure, Maeve.” I let a small smile show and open the door to out of the room. The blinding lights of the police station compared to the dark atmosphere of the interrogation room blinds my poor eyes, and as I walk to my car, I feel so empty, so full, and so helpless that I can’t help but smile like a dope. Therapy, huh? Therapy is like opening a wound - a weekly, deep wound that you can rarely heal if you don’t have the right amount of patience. It hurts an awful lot most of the time. Sometimes it’s relieving, sometimes it’s just painful. But I dunno. Everything might work out just fine. Or it might not. I might wake up tomorrow and want to hit something. I might want to plant a garden. I really have this whole world of things I can do, and it’s a bit breathtaking to think about it all now. I wonder if the world is fucked, and we’re all going to die some day. I wonder if every time they said it was going to be OK, they actually meant it.