"Whoa!" A gruff voice commands, as I round the corner of the hallway, almost colliding with a six foot three inch body. As it turns out, it's my boss, Denny Cheek.
"Oh, Mr. Cheek, I'm sorry." I apologize, blushing.
" Franky, please call me Denny." He pauses. "Mr. Cheek is, er, was my father." He smiles, and pats me on the shoulder. "If you've got a minute or two after work, please see me. I've been meaning to do your ninety day review for the past two weeks." He says, hanging his head. "I've been swamped with this state audit b.s." He admits sheepishly.
"Oh, sure Mr. Ch, I,uh, mean Denny." I fumble, correcting myself. "I'm on my way to the WCPD for an emergency intervention, but I'm hoping to make it back before lunch." I hurt.
"Fine." He smiles at me. "I'll see you at the end of the day." And he continues down the hall, leaving me to worry about my review.
My ninety days were up almost fifteen days ago. I just assumed I was now a permanent employee of the Whitley County Advocacy and Protection Department. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Mr. Cheek isn't happy with my performance. I rationalize with myself that there isn't a single reason why anyone would . my performance. I really need to quit second guessing myself. I'm always the first to work and the last to leave. I go strictly by the book, never deviating. Ok, never deviating where it counts anyway.
"Enough Franky!" I chide myself in a half whisper, hoping noone notices that I'm speaking to myself.
Ten minutes later I'm in my car and headed for the Whitley County Police Department. I pop in a Beck c.d. and attempt to relax, knowing that's an impossible task for me.
I make a note to ask my shrink for a script of Xanax. Lord knows I've tried every relaxation technique available to man. There comes a time when you have to forego the all natural route and employ western medicine's approach. I'm there and ready!
I turn up the volume and concentrate on the road. The WCPD is roughly thirty minutes away...plenty of time to get swept up in unwanted thoughts. As a rule, I don't allow myself to think about the past. It's chock full of ugly and worse. Whenever undesired thoughts sneak past my internal security, I quickly switch gears. Unfortunately, this happens often.
"Live one day at a time Franky." I remind myself aloud, looking around to make sure other drivers aren't watching my one woman conversation.
Somewhere between mile marker eleven and fifteen, my thoughts turn to the complaint I received twenty-five minutes ago from Officer Shough. They had found a six year old little boy at home alone, sitting in his own urine and excrement. No electricity, no water, and no parents. All he had in the way of food and drink was an eighth of a box of froot loops, and a half bottle of clabbered milk. Alone in a closed up, locked up dark house with no air conditioning and it ninety-five degrees outside. I shake my head, knowing how alone and afraid he feels. Officer Shough said he was wearing a diaper and sucking on a pacifier. He's six. What has this child been through? I wonder.
****
I pull into the visitors lot, cursing that all of the shaded parking spaces are taken. According to the rearview mirror, it's ninety-seven degrees. I have my air conditioner cranked up to high, yet sweat is running down my face and back. My hair is plastered to my head, and circles of sweat are visible underneath my arms. I'm afraid to even look at myself in the visor mirror, but I have to. I'm a professional after all, and am expected to present myself to the public in a certain way.
After glancing in the mirror, I undo the messy bun and brush my long hair quickly into yet another messy bun, only neater. After looking through my glove box and console for a tissue, I scan the floor boards and find an unused McDonald's napkin which I use to absorb the sweat from my face. Sighing at my reflection in the mirror, I decide it's an improvement, but nothing more. I grab my satchel, slinging it over my shoulder, and shut my door. I set the alarm and make my way towards the seven story red brick building that houses the local P.D. and several other businesses. Walking across the parking lot, sweat runs down my face and my hair falls. I make a mental note to get my air-conditioner fixed stat.
YOU ARE READING
hurt girl
General FictionFrances Setters earliest memory was of her Mother plucking one strand after another of her long brown hair from her head with tweezers, plucking as slowly as possible near her temple to cause as much pain as she could. She was 5 years old. She had...
