Prisoner of Iron, Parting the Fourth: The Scales of Justice
August 8th, 2007.
Previously…
So, I got the whole Darth Vader treatment and got my jaw wired shut. Not the best feeling on the planet, but at least my mandible bones wouldn't go slipping out of place in an exquisitely painful manner while I tried out my new set of straws. Yes, you lot heard that right-straws. My mum bought me a package of multi-colored straws to use whenever I needed to drink something. Yes, there was also no eating of any kind. Like I could get anything past the vise grip of metal and rubber bands. I was a prisoner, trapped in something of someone else's doing.
And now…
My desk looked a lot different than it did the day before. Sure, there was the organized chaos and piles of documents strewn all over, stacks of books and empty binders, that sort of thing. My version of organized chaos, anyway. Ask me for anything and it could eventually be found. Today, though, there were new guests, in the form of a bag full of my meds. Two bottles of pain medication. Both tasted dreadful. One was for my jaw pain and the other was an antibiotic. Good times. Really.
The day at work was full of concern from my coworkers and outright anger at my attacker. I just wanted to get through the day while sipping on V-8, my new happy diet of choice. No more Slim Jims, no more Funjuns. Everything I had to eat was through my new collection of straws, in all manners of colors. At least I had that.
In the meantime, I got more info about my attacker. Seemed he was a piece of work, more or less a person who did nothing to better himself or get ahead in life. The man had a rapsheet a mile long. Literally. I was shocked at what he had been in jail for before, and wondered how he wasn't in jail after all of his shenanigans. Our society at work, giving the wrong people second chances and not helping those who could be redeemed.
I had to leave work early to head somewhere I had never been before. The Headquarters of the Orlando Police Department in Downtown. All throughout my life I've never had any reason to go to the police station. I had maybe been close to actually being arrested twice in my life--that's a story for another day though. Point is, I've never walked through the doors. It was nothing I was or could have been prepared for.
Downtown gridlock was pretty bad, and it took forever for me to even find a parking spot. It was just after 5 when I got there, so I definitely had to pay for parking. Unfortunately. Walking up to the building was a little weird, but once I got in everything was most certainly easier. The people working there were extremely helpful, though I got there at a bad time, while they were in the middle of a shift change. I had to wait about an hour before seeing a police officer.
One of the boys in blue finally showed up, and I recounted the story to him and filled out a report. He told me that I would be contacted by a detective in about a week, and that it might take a while. That wasn't promising, but it was at least something. The whole experience was nothing like it was portrayed on television. It was more like going to the DMV, if anything else. That's what made things a lot easier.
I finally got home and sat around. Red went out and hung with Alicia while I stayed home. No use for me going out or anything. I couldn't talk because my jaw was wired shut, I couldn't drink because of the meds, and I couldn't even smoke a cigarette because it was nearly impossible to take one drag. At least this new "diet" was going to do wonders for my recently bulging waistline.
Still, it was the new status quo for a while, and I would have to get used to it. Six weeks? No sweat, especially for someone like me. I survived more arduous situations than this. I was going to make it. That much was certain.
Next: Jump with me 3 months into the future. What's to come? Old friends, new friends. Everything old is new again. A road trip, the return of an old rival, and even more strange days in the life of yours truly. Wait. It gets better.
I still didn't know whether or not going to the authorities was a good idea. But my attacker wasn't the most mentally stable of people. And I wasn't about to put my family in danger by going after him. Something had to be done, though. While the outcome of what I was about to pursue would be long unknown, I also had no choice. No lunatic with issues of possession was going to get away with this. Justice was right 'round the corner, and all it took was for me to go somewhere I had never been before. Which was surprising in itself, considering where I came from and what I had experienced in life. Well, there was a first time for everything.