back in his seat, drew quiet, almost disappearing from sight. When they arrived at the jail, Nick jumped out the car and snatched him up by the arm so hard, the asshole hollered out as if he’d been snapped in two.
I could only wish…
“Ohhh, did that hurt?” He grinned a bit harder as he dragged the dirt bag into the place, dropped him off like the sack of shit that he was. He wanted to punch him in the middle of his pathetic face, furious he had to fill out another report; more damn paperwork because of him.
He didn’t have one stinking cut! Not one damn bruise!
She refused to go to the hospital…
She stood there looking like something forgotten in a meat locker on a hot, summer day. Jesus!
As minute after minute sailed past, Nick typed away, feeling a wave of irritability that wasn’t easy to shake. He found himself itching for much wanted relief, needed to break away. He’d seen too many domestic violence victims to count, but for some reason, this one tore him up a bit more inside. Maybe it was because Miguel didn’t give a shit, danced around his responsibility, played the role of victim and exonerated himself; or maybe because Maria looked so much like Ma… So much so, when he’d first seen the woman long ago, he literally gasped…
His jaw tensed as he pounded the keyboard:
Name: Miguel H. Vega Sex: Male
Birthdate: March 28th, 1987…
He needed to get away, get done…
Get right…get down…get high…
Please…
He pleaded with his damn self. Begged himself to stay cool as he went through the contrived motions. He kept on, working through it, convincing himself it wasn’t so bad, but then, tickling pools of sweat gathered around his brow and his face turned him into a clammy mess and his head fogged, constrained by his own sordid thoughts. Twenty-five minutes later, the report was done and he was none sooner on his unsteady feet, stating he wasn’t feeling well. Captain O’Sullivan took a slow steady look at him, up and down, dawdling, dragging out the moment.
“Yeah, you don’t look so hot,” he finally conceded, his lips parted and short, fat tongue darted out. He placed his large, heavy hand on his shoulder. “Ya sick?”
“Yeah.” Nick nodded as his keyed-up body tried to rat him out. “Ate some bad chili, I think.”
“That’ll do it every time. Go home. See you in the morning. Get some rest.” The man turned away, leaving him feeling like a big ass pile of fresh steaming shit. He’d never lied to the face of his boss before. This was a new all time low. He’d looked that man in the damn eye and laid a story on him; he hated himself a bit more for the whole damn situation. He’d always been able to contain himself, to wait until he got home to jump into his stash and relax for the evening.
The blow was his nightcap, the thing that calmed his mind and nerves just so. If he missed a week or two, that was fine; he wasn’t wired for a fix, but the alcohol—well, that was a whole ’nother matter altogether. He had to drink. It had to happen morning and night and if he got the chance, he’d sneak an afternoon taste or two in a bathroom stall, too. It had become part of his routine during fits of registered exhaustion. He’d jam himself in the back of some hole in the wall covered in thick, gang related writings as the stench of old, funky piss crawled up his nose like a maggot and burrowed there, making him sick to his goddamn stomach…
…but it was worth it.
By the time Nick arrived home that evening, he had no recollection of how he’d made it there. He drove, but the streets, sounds and people were mere moving blurs and distant murmurs never to be recalled again. He fumbled and cursed out his shaking hands as he dropped his keys several times in the omnipresent snow. Finally getting his bearings, he burst into his place as if it were a police raid on his own goddamn self. Several minutes later he had downed three sizeable glasses of vodka and snorted one line of
I could only wish…
“Ohhh, did that hurt?” He grinned a bit harder as he dragged the dirt bag into the place, dropped him off like the sack of shit that he was. He wanted to punch him in the middle of his pathetic face, furious he had to fill out another report; more damn paperwork because of him.
He didn’t have one stinking cut! Not one damn bruise!
She refused to go to the hospital…
She stood there looking like something forgotten in a meat locker on a hot, summer day. Jesus!
As minute after minute sailed past, Nick typed away, feeling a wave of irritability that wasn’t easy to shake. He found himself itching for much wanted relief, needed to break away. He’d seen too many domestic violence victims to count, but for some reason, this one tore him up a bit more inside. Maybe it was because Miguel didn’t give a shit, danced around his responsibility, played the role of victim and exonerated himself; or maybe because Maria looked so much like Ma… So much so, when he’d first seen the woman long ago, he literally gasped…
His jaw tensed as he pounded the keyboard:
Name: Miguel H. Vega Sex: Male
Birthdate: March 28th, 1987…
He needed to get away, get done…
Get right…get down…get high…
Please…
He pleaded with his damn self. Begged himself to stay cool as he went through the contrived motions. He kept on, working through it, convincing himself it wasn’t so bad, but then, tickling pools of sweat gathered around his brow and his face turned him into a clammy mess and his head fogged, constrained by his own sordid thoughts. Twenty-five minutes later, the report was done and he was none sooner on his unsteady feet, stating he wasn’t feeling well. Captain O’Sullivan took a slow steady look at him, up and down, dawdling, dragging out the moment.
“Yeah, you don’t look so hot,” he finally conceded, his lips parted and short, fat tongue darted out. He placed his large, heavy hand on his shoulder. “Ya sick?”
“Yeah.” Nick nodded as his keyed-up body tried to rat him out. “Ate some bad chili, I think.”
“That’ll do it every time. Go home. See you in the morning. Get some rest.” The man turned away, leaving him feeling like a big ass pile of fresh steaming shit. He’d never lied to the face of his boss before. This was a new all time low. He’d looked that man in the damn eye and laid a story on him; he hated himself a bit more for the whole damn situation. He’d always been able to contain himself, to wait until he got home to jump into his stash and relax for the evening.
The blow was his nightcap, the thing that calmed his mind and nerves just so. If he missed a week or two, that was fine; he wasn’t wired for a fix, but the alcohol—well, that was a whole ’nother matter altogether. He had to drink. It had to happen morning and night and if he got the chance, he’d sneak an afternoon taste or two in a bathroom stall, too. It had become part of his routine during fits of registered exhaustion. He’d jam himself in the back of some hole in the wall covered in thick, gang related writings as the stench of old, funky piss crawled up his nose like a maggot and burrowed there, making him sick to his goddamn stomach…
…but it was worth it.
By the time Nick arrived home that evening, he had no recollection of how he’d made it there. He drove, but the streets, sounds and people were mere moving blurs and distant murmurs never to be recalled again. He fumbled and cursed out his shaking hands as he dropped his keys several times in the omnipresent snow. Finally getting his bearings, he burst into his place as if it were a police raid on his own goddamn self. Several minutes later he had downed three sizeable glasses of vodka and snorted one line of
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