Views from the Couch

I remember the cop, visibly annoyed with being burdened with the task of taking my statement, leading me into the tiny room and I remember the panic bubbling up when he shut the door behind him. I think he typed 5.5 words a minute. I told him the whole story. It seemed like we were in there for hours. Maybe because he took that long to type or maybe because the designers of that tiny room, with the door closed, made no allowance for personal space. It didn’t help that he was so obviously agitated with being assigned the duty of taking dictation from me. At 20 years old, the last thing I wanted to be doing was sitting in that shrinking room giving some strange man a detailed, minute by minute, account of the night that started out at a bar with friends and ended with two of those…

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