Good cop bad cop
ugh same title as the story title gosh
Gotta lock myself in a dimly lit room, toss me into a steel chair at an empty desk with a single lamp burning brightly on my face. Even the light is full of accusation.
---I recoil. A pair of squinting eyes and a burning face are my admittance to guilt and yet here I sit contemplating innocence. My hands clutching the cold metal nervously, like it's all I've got. "I don't even know why I'm here." Though, I can't forget. Try as I might I can't forget.
...Walk over to the desk, pull up a chair and sit down. Reach my hand across sympathetically, maybe offer up a bribe, or an easy out, just for some answers. Anything to work with, plead "I know its hard, honey but this has to happen."
---Head in my hands, raking my fingers through my hair...racking my brain to think of something on the surface that I can throw out there to appease the inquisition for a moment...get off my case, "just trying to do things a little differently, it's no problem, really.."
Why tell of how it tears me up inside, could I say I deserve any more than that?
.Spring from my lean against the unforgiving wall and point my finger, slam my fist down on the table, demand some answers that are worth my while. "there's no tiptoeing around this shit anymore." Wishing there were pictures of a mutilated body to slam on the table, or an agonized face or two to bring this into focus, but there's no proof, no solidified sin or tangible terror.
---Look down and wonder what I've gotten myself into. Bite my lip.
...Recognizing the grief and worry on that face, knowing that regret never got anyone anywhere, my voice whispers "...Look, just trying to help you out here. Things could be so much better" My hand squeezing a shoulder.
---Convince myself I'm right, or I'm wrong, things are fine, they're fine. There's always a sweet relief in disbelief. "but I don't need help with anything..." My death grip on the chair loosens. I think I really believe it.
.Tired of all the lines, all the excuses heard before, my patience has reached its end. Frustrated, screaming, "Then you can fucking rot here! It's no skin off my back" Kick a chair and slam the door on my way out.
...Cringe concerned, mind racing for anything that could crack this shell, "Why? Why are you doing this to yourself?" Maybe it has to be blunt.
---I bite my lip, I shake my head. Can't look up from my hands.
...Push in the chair, dare one more chance for eye contact and, disappointed, head to the door. The situation no better off than at the start.
---I don't know what to do with myself.
I'm trying and I'm getting no where.
---I recoil. A pair of squinting eyes and a burning face are my admittance to guilt and yet here I sit contemplating innocence. My hands clutching the cold metal nervously, like it's all I've got. "I don't even know why I'm here." Though, I can't forget. Try as I might I can't forget.
...Walk over to the desk, pull up a chair and sit down. Reach my hand across sympathetically, maybe offer up a bribe, or an easy out, just for some answers. Anything to work with, plead "I know its hard, honey but this has to happen."
---Head in my hands, raking my fingers through my hair...racking my brain to think of something on the surface that I can throw out there to appease the inquisition for a moment...get off my case, "just trying to do things a little differently, it's no problem, really.."
Why tell of how it tears me up inside, could I say I deserve any more than that?
.Spring from my lean against the unforgiving wall and point my finger, slam my fist down on the table, demand some answers that are worth my while. "there's no tiptoeing around this shit anymore." Wishing there were pictures of a mutilated body to slam on the table, or an agonized face or two to bring this into focus, but there's no proof, no solidified sin or tangible terror.
---Look down and wonder what I've gotten myself into. Bite my lip.
...Recognizing the grief and worry on that face, knowing that regret never got anyone anywhere, my voice whispers "...Look, just trying to help you out here. Things could be so much better" My hand squeezing a shoulder.
---Convince myself I'm right, or I'm wrong, things are fine, they're fine. There's always a sweet relief in disbelief. "but I don't need help with anything..." My death grip on the chair loosens. I think I really believe it.
.Tired of all the lines, all the excuses heard before, my patience has reached its end. Frustrated, screaming, "Then you can fucking rot here! It's no skin off my back" Kick a chair and slam the door on my way out.
...Cringe concerned, mind racing for anything that could crack this shell, "Why? Why are you doing this to yourself?" Maybe it has to be blunt.
---I bite my lip, I shake my head. Can't look up from my hands.
...Push in the chair, dare one more chance for eye contact and, disappointed, head to the door. The situation no better off than at the start.
---I don't know what to do with myself.
I'm trying and I'm getting no where.