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Sunday Morning
She is already sat in front of my desk when I enter the room. I walk past her, catching a glance of her hunched shoulders, round the desk, put my coffee mug on it. I scrape my chair from under the desk and sit.
Another look at her. She’s stooping, I can’t see anything but her long, shaggy brown hair loosely falling over a frayed bluish pullover. I clear my throat once, as if to signal my presence, but she doesn’t even twitch. Mechanically, I reach for the mug, take a sip out of it, and put it back.
‘Coffee maybe? Something hot?’ I venture in my best soothing voice.
No answer. Not even a hint that she heard me.
I squirm on my chair. It was never going to be easy, but I didn’t anticipate it would be that tough. Lack of experience, I suppose. I reach out for the green coloured file with her name on it, open it, leaf through the couple of pages, going through the motions. There’s not much to read at this stage anyway, but even the few recorded details threaten to sicken me.
‘Miss Burns?’ I say. ‘Daphne Burns. Is that right?’
No reaction.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘I know this is probably the last place you want to be in right now. But this has somehow to be done, and it’s crucial it be over as soon as possible so we can act and pinch the bastards who…’ I break off. I can’t utter the word. Too direct, too brutal, too explicit. I flounder for a roundabout alternative. ‘…did that to you’, I conclude blandly.
This must have registered somewhere in her mind. She slowly raises her head. Her face is partly hidden behind falling hanks of hair, but I can still get a glimpse of her swollen, bruised left eye and the cuts on her lips. The medical report mentions more, in addition to—
She looks at me wearily. ‘What do you want of me?’ she whispers. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink? Something hot would pick you up a little,’ I say, attempting to reach out to her as gently as I can. She gives a faint smile and shakes her head, ever so slightly.
I sigh. ‘I know this is another ordeal foisted on you, and I sincerely apologise.’ I stop, realising how hollow these words will sound to her. I sigh again. ‘Look, I don’t need all the… facts. I mean, just a quick once-over of what happened, where and most of all who. Who they were and how they look and anything, even the slightest detail, that could help identify them, really. They must pay for what they did.’
She stares at me with unfocused eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she flops on to the desk and breaks down into tears. I bit my lips. Somewhere deep, I’d like to stand up, walk to her and hug her, and explain to her that it’s over, that there are people round who love her, that all boys are not alike. That she’s not to blame, as so many victims think. That she was just at the wrong place at the wrong moment. But I also know that it’s not over, that it’s just the beginning of the tunnel, and that it’ll take years for her to reach a sense of closure, provided she finds the strength and resilience within. And that at this stage any physical contact, even a simple brushing of her hand, would simply make matters way worse.
It’s going to be a long day.
Another look at her. She’s stooping, I can’t see anything but her long, shaggy brown hair loosely falling over a frayed bluish pullover. I clear my throat once, as if to signal my presence, but she doesn’t even twitch. Mechanically, I reach for the mug, take a sip out of it, and put it back.
‘Coffee maybe? Something hot?’ I venture in my best soothing voice.
No answer. Not even a hint that she heard me.
I squirm on my chair. It was never going to be easy, but I didn’t anticipate it would be that tough. Lack of experience, I suppose. I reach out for the green coloured file with her name on it, open it, leaf through the couple of pages, going through the motions. There’s not much to read at this stage anyway, but even the few recorded details threaten to sicken me.
‘Miss Burns?’ I say. ‘Daphne Burns. Is that right?’
No reaction.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘I know this is probably the last place you want to be in right now. But this has somehow to be done, and it’s crucial it be over as soon as possible so we can act and pinch the bastards who…’ I break off. I can’t utter the word. Too direct, too brutal, too explicit. I flounder for a roundabout alternative. ‘…did that to you’, I conclude blandly.
This must have registered somewhere in her mind. She slowly raises her head. Her face is partly hidden behind falling hanks of hair, but I can still get a glimpse of her swollen, bruised left eye and the cuts on her lips. The medical report mentions more, in addition to—
She looks at me wearily. ‘What do you want of me?’ she whispers. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink? Something hot would pick you up a little,’ I say, attempting to reach out to her as gently as I can. She gives a faint smile and shakes her head, ever so slightly.
I sigh. ‘I know this is another ordeal foisted on you, and I sincerely apologise.’ I stop, realising how hollow these words will sound to her. I sigh again. ‘Look, I don’t need all the… facts. I mean, just a quick once-over of what happened, where and most of all who. Who they were and how they look and anything, even the slightest detail, that could help identify them, really. They must pay for what they did.’
She stares at me with unfocused eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she flops on to the desk and breaks down into tears. I bit my lips. Somewhere deep, I’d like to stand up, walk to her and hug her, and explain to her that it’s over, that there are people round who love her, that all boys are not alike. That she’s not to blame, as so many victims think. That she was just at the wrong place at the wrong moment. But I also know that it’s not over, that it’s just the beginning of the tunnel, and that it’ll take years for her to reach a sense of closure, provided she finds the strength and resilience within. And that at this stage any physical contact, even a simple brushing of her hand, would simply make matters way worse.
It’s going to be a long day.
Pics
It's contradictory to narrate breaking off when the dialogue ended with an ellipsis. They're opposite effects. A few details of phrasing here and there are off a bit or seem archaic. Why is "I bit my lips" in past tense? Also, you usually only bite one of them.
The pacing feels a bit off. The long-ish intro might work for a lengthier story, but it takes up more room here than it needs to. It creates atmosphere well enough, but none of that ends up being important, so I'm just waiting to find out what's going on here. By the time Daphne speaks, it's pretty clearly implied what the situation is, and then nothing else develops through the last half. It just confirms what's already been heavily foreshadowed and doesn't take it anywhere else. I like the mood it creates, but honestly, if this had been just the paragraph that begins with "Look," I wouldn't get anything less out of it. Make the rest of it consequential.
The pacing feels a bit off. The long-ish intro might work for a lengthier story, but it takes up more room here than it needs to. It creates atmosphere well enough, but none of that ends up being important, so I'm just waiting to find out what's going on here. By the time Daphne speaks, it's pretty clearly implied what the situation is, and then nothing else develops through the last half. It just confirms what's already been heavily foreshadowed and doesn't take it anywhere else. I like the mood it creates, but honestly, if this had been just the paragraph that begins with "Look," I wouldn't get anything less out of it. Make the rest of it consequential.