the-eye-of-the-beholder

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
release.
At that moment, there is a rasp at the door. Curiosity prevails
over me, weakening the anger.
“Open up. This is the police. Open up,” they bark through
the door.
I reach for the cold, hard knob, my fingers twisting around
it. The door continues to shake crazily as the policemen’s fists
crash into the wood. My heart is rising in my throat, blocking
off my air, as blood surges to my fingertips. It holds there and
they become heavy.
“Open up now!”
I open the door.
The two men before me now are stern-faced, tall and broad
at their shoulders. They take deep heaving breaths as our eyes
meet, reminding me of strong ox. They’re clad in full black and
white uniforms, caps beading forward in judgement.
One produces his credentials, a bound leather wallet that he
waves quickly across my eye-line and stuffs back into his pocket.
His companion remains picturesque with his arms forward and
his jaws snapped shut.
The first maintains eye contact with me for a little longer and
swallows a mouthful of air: “are you Abigail Ellen?” The words
are punishing, as if miniature darts are laced into his saliva.
My heart races at the thought of answering and my palms
quickly turn sticky. I begin to stutter incoherent nonsense that
simply sounds like I’m a savage attempting to learn to speak in
a seconds’ deadline.
“Are you Abigail Ellen?” He repeats himself, harsher now.
“Yes,” I finally manage to push forward.
“Miss, we’re going to need you to accompany us down to the
station now. As of this moment, you are now under arrest on
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