Page 2 of Protecting Paul

It’s easy to subdue him. He struggles at first but stops after he realizes it’s going nowhere. I can hear him grumbling under his breath as I cuff him. I catch the wordspigandsue the shit out of you. I don’t give it a second thought. I know they’re empty threats.

“You have the right to remain silent…” I say, as I lead him outside to my squad car. As I’m placing him in the back and being bombarded with insults, Officer Wallace pulls up. I slam the door and go to greet him.

“Hey.” I nod towards the backseat of the cruiser. “I’ve got the guy in the back already if you can just get her down to the station. She’s pretty shaken up though. Tread carefully, alright?”

“Yeah, of course.” He nods and pats me on the back. “Chin up, Conroy. I know the domestic abuse cases always get to you, but we’re gonna make sure this guy gets what he deserves, alright?”

“I’ll make sure of that,” I nod. “I appreciate it though, Wallace. Just take care of her. She’s pretty shaken up.”

I climb into the front seat of the car and begin the drive back to the station. Mr. Jones doesn’t take a break the whole ride to the station. He’s insulting his wife, me, the police in general, and pretty much anyone he can think of. I tune it out easily. He’s pathetic and not worth listening to.

Wallace is right though. The domestic abuse cases always hit me extra hard. I’m also the first one to offer to take them. A few of my coworkers I’m relatively close to have commented on it, but I’ve never told them why.

While I’ve never personally been in that type of situation, it hits close to home for me. Even though I was a kid at the time, I’ve never been able to let the guilt of it go. Logically, I know it’s stupid to blame myself, but feelings don’t listen to logic.

When I decided to pursue a career in law enforcement, I took an oath but I also made a promise to myself. I want to protect those who can’t protect themselves with all I have. It won’t make up for my past regrets, but it’ll offer some respite from the guilt. That’s as much as I can ask for.

2

Paul

AsIdrivenorthpast the Denver city limits, my stomach churns with anxiety and a sort of mourning. I found out just yesterday that my dad has passed away, but the mourning isn’t for him. When I got the call telling me about his death, the only feeling I could identify was relief.

I was told he died without a will and that everything regarding his assets, bills, and estate has now fallen on me. It’s just like that bastard to cause me issues even in death. As if it isn’t enough, hearing about his passing has stirred up all kinds of traumatizing memories, and even worse, I’m on my way back to the same place where the bad shit happened.

Fucking Shafter Falls.When I left at seventeen, I made a promise to myself that I would never go back. I hauled ass out of there, settled in Colorado, and never looked back. It was a decision I never regretted. As far as I was concerned, I would never set foot in Wyoming again.

Now, I don’t really have a good choice other than to put aside the happy life and sense of community I found in Denver to head back to the small town I resent. Almost all of my hometown memories are bad, except for a few with my first love, though even some of those pleasant memories are tainted, thanks to my shitty family.

I turn the radio up as I drive. I plan to shove aside all the memories of my father that forced me to flee Shafter Falls as soon as I could. However just like when he was alive, my dad doesn’t allow that. Flashes of arguments with him run through my memory.

“Of course, you’re home late,” He says as I walk into the house.

I tried to sneak in as quietly as possible, but he didn’t give me the chance.

“Were you out with what’s his name again? Acting like a little faggot?”

“None of your business,” I grumble and try to push past him. He grabs my arm and stops me, glaring at me with hatred in his eyes. “Can you get your hands off of me?”

“That’s probably not what you said to that cocksucker,” he scowls. His voice is venomous, and his words burn through me. “Your guilty little face tells me everything.”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” I say, tipping my chin up at him defiantly. “Say what you want about me. I’m used to it, but don’t bring him into this.”

A fresh wave of resentment floods my body as that memory slaps me in the face. It’s one of the many memories I’ve tried to repress in the deepest depths of my mind. I haven’t had to think about it in years, and now it feels like a fresh wound.

It pisses me off to no end that I can’t just be relieved that my father is finally gone forever, but instead here I am full of renewed anger. He’s still got a hold on me from beyond the grave, and it makes me feel weak. That thought dredges up another memory.

My dad snatches my sketchbook out of my hand. Moments ago, I was minding my business drawing in my room. For apparently no reason, he flung my door open, and began screaming.

“You’re a sissy, Paul. You couldn’t do a sport like a normal kid? You have to sit in here and do these worthless doodles?”

“Just give me my sketchbook back,” I mumbled. I know nothing I say will matter anyway. “I wasn’t doing anything bad.”

He scoffs and looks down at the half-done drawing. With a malicious look in his eyes, he rips the drawing in half and then goes through the sketch book page by page, tearing everything in it to pieces. He throws the empty covers at me and stomps the shreds into the floor as he leaves.

Over the years, I built a shell to the abuse. I became able to dissociate from the situation and just wait for it to pass. As soon as I heard his footsteps, my brain left my body and whatever happened next felt like a bad dream. It wasn’t though. It was far too real.

Since moving away, I haven't allowed myself to think about the past. I’m not a helpless teenager anymore. I’m not ashamed of my sexuality, my interests, or my entire personality anymore. Living in Denver made me truly confident in who I am for the first time. Now it feels like I’m heading straight back into the lion’s den after nearly a decade.

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