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We stepped out, and I eyed all around
me at a bunch of doors. We passed a few rooms and walked all the way to
the end of the hall. John seemed to know exactly where to go, as if he’d
walked through this corridor dozens of times before. Come to think of it
he probably had, since he was on good terms with a number of the CS
representatives.
We walked in the room at the end of the hall, John stepping in before
me. The man behind the giant mahogany desk acknowledged our arrival and
ended a previous phone conversation. John greeted the man, eyes bright
as he stepped forward. The man, freshly shaven and definitely on the
heavier side lifted himself out of his matching shiny mahogany chair and
extended a hand to reflect John’s. The pair shook, exchanging friendly
grins.
“John,” the man nodded.
“How’ve you been Mr. Dunner?” John asked politely, not really expecting
an answer. “This is Shuro Morrison.” John placed a palm on my back,
leading me gently toward Mr. Dunner to introduce myself.
I extended a hand as well, and he grasped it firmly and shook it.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Morrison,” Mr. Dunner smiled tightly,
his eyes exploring mine, our hands still folded together.
I forced a smile in return, retrieving my hand. “Can’t say the same
about you, Mr. Dunner,” I tried to joke, but no one laughed.
Mr. Dunner cleared his throat. “Please, take a seat.” He gestured at the
seats directly in front of his large desk, while his body repossessed
his own seat.
John gave me a deep look once he sat down in one of the two chairs, as
if to tell me not to joke in front of this man. I caught his message and
turned back to Mr. Dunner who was shuffling through a few stray papers
on his desk.
“So, Shuro,” Mr. Dunner cleared his throat again. “As you probably know,
you’re here so I, as a representative for the Child Services of the RSLN,
can ask you a few questions regarding the extent of your abuse.”
I nodded and shifted a little in the hard seat, gripping the armrests.
Mr. Dunner retrieved a clipboard from a drawer in his desk and reached
for a pen which was clipped to his shirt pocket. He pushed his
square-framed glasses to the bridge of his nose and leaned forward in
his chair, his elbows resting on the desk. “So,” he said, “how long has
your father been abusing you?”
“Umm...” I looked over at John who then nodded encouragingly at me. “All
my life.” I said, looking back at Mr. Dunner.
Mr. Dunner appeared to choke on apparently nothing and his eyes grew
wide. “And you’re only coming to us now?”
I didn’t answer that, since it reminded me somewhat of a mock, but
merely put it behind me and waited for the next question.
“And... do you know if your father has any history of abusing others
before you?” Mr. Dunner appeared very concerned yet collected, as if he
had done this a couple hundred times before.
I thought about it. “Yeah, he would hit my mother when they were still
together.” I paused, rubbing my chin with my thumb and forefinger. “…And
to think that he was the one to pack up and leave.”
Mr. Dunner jotted down a few things on the clipboard, then silently
stared at me almost pitifully. He leaned forward, as if contemplating
asking me something. “I know this is a bit personal, but we need to get
this down for our record, okay?”
I bit my bottom lip and braced for the worst, nodding.
“What is the worst assault your father has ever showed you?” Mr. Dunner
asked, his face serious and concentrated.
As his words echoed in my head I remembered all the times Ron preformed
his inhumane acts on me, and the way he always treated me like I was
just some sticky piece of chewing gum on the bottom of his shoe. Living
with Ron every day was like going through one of my darkest nightmares,
each day desperately clinging to the string of hope that might someday
wake me up from it all. Imagine not being able to say or do anything
without it being thrown vigorously back in your face. Imagine not being
viewed as a human being with feelings or emotions, but rather a mere
worthless toy. Imagine seeing and smelling your own raw blood every
other day of your life, constantly searching for a new Band-Aid or
string of gauze to stop it from spilling out, or trying to hide from
others all the bruises and scrapes you receive each day. Imagine feeling
so gutted by the things you were told and feeling nothing but immense
pain when that person — the person you despise more than anything in the
world — is through with you. Or throwing up practically all of your
insides as the result of the number of fists you took to the stomach, or
knowing that no matter how much you change and how much time passes
those wretched memories will stay with you forever. Yeah, that’s what
it’s like living with Ron. I didn’t know how to begin in the least to
try to explain that to Mr. Dunner, though.
By now John was shifting uncomfortably in his seat as well, as if he
could feel my pain and unease.
“I... well...” I started, haunted by all the thoughts that were running
through my head.
“It’s alright. Take your time, son,” Mr. Dunner sat patiently, and I
could feel him staring though I didn’t make eye contact with him.
My eyes lay fixed on the front panel of Mr. Dunner’s desk, my mind
wandering off to the recollections of my past.
The room was silent for what felt like ages, but they didn’t seem to
mind. They were patient with me, something I wasn’t so accustomed to. I
hadn’t realized I was slouching in the chair so much, so I shifted a
bit, straightening myself and resting my arm on the armrest, which
wasn’t the most comfortable thing I’ve ever leaned on.
“I guess... There’s the time when he shot me in the arm and I was
hospitalized for a few weeks... Or the time he carved into my back with
shattered glass,” I said calmly and casually. “Or the time he tried to
drown me in the bathtub, or maybe the time he held my hand pinned to the
scorching stove, or when he smashed my head against the mirror countless
times until I was out cold... I guess... Do these qualify?”
Mr. Dunner just sat there, his face pale and emotionless. From the
corner of my eye John appeared to be going through a great deal of pain
himself as he rubbed his temples and shook his head.
“Do you see now why we’ve come to you?” John asked Mr. Dunner. “Please
don’t make my client go in to further detail about this.”
“Yes, of course. I truly am sorry,” Mr. Dunner folded his hands together
after he wrote a bit more on the clipboard.
I eyed John, thankful of his interruption. He wasn’t looking at me; he
continued staring intently at Mr. Dunner.
“Now, if I’m not mistaken,” Mr. Dunner started, “your father has
sexually abused you as well?”
I couldn’t stop shifting each time a new question was asked. “Yes.”
“I know it’s personal, but we need to know for the case.”
I looked around, wondering what he wanted to hear. I merely spoke the
truth, although each word stung as it escaped my mouth. “He sexually
abuses... rapes... me probably once every two weeks or so,” I said in
almost a whisper. I was going to continue but I was interrupted by a
firm comforting grip on my knee.
“It’s okay, Shuro. You don’t need to say anything else,” John told me,
looking deep into my eyes. There was a lump in my throat which I was
trying hard to push down with a swallow.
“It’s okay, that’s all we need to know for now,” Mr. Dunner said,
clipping the pen back onto his shirt. “Thank you so much.” He leaned
forward and shook John’s hand again, then extended it for me to shake. I
didn’t even realize he had it held out until I noticed John stand and
straighten out his suit coat.
I merely kept my eyes fixed on his awaiting hand and then stood, not
shaking it, and walked over to the door to wait for John. I think I was
too irritated to shake anyone’s hand at that moment; especially not one
who belonged to a man who made me think of my history with Ron.
As I clutched the doorknob, my back facing the two, I heard John say
quietly; “It’s nothing personal, really. He has an aversion to
discussing his personal life with people he just met.”
“That’s okay,” Mr. Dunner said. “I understand. I’ve pretty much got all
the information we need. I’ll give you a call in a few days if any plans
change, alright?”
“Sure thing. Thanks a lot.” John walked over to me, and I glanced up at
him.
He gave a reassuring nod and I opened the door, leaving Mr. Dunner’s
office, John trailing behind. |
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