Trauma Reverse

"It's funny. They all have a simple fallback. All think the same. Programmed robots in humans, to go to the same default thought. The same thing over and over again.

If you were getting abused why didn't you tell anyone? You got raped, what were you wearing? Why do they always find ways to put the blame on the victim? Your shorts were short, shoulda worn snow pants to a ninety degree party. Shouldn't have drank that much alcohol. You should've told somebody, that's your fault. Ok, then I'll be the monster.

When he pulled out his fists, I pulled out the pistol. Guess the neighbors complained about the noise, even though they never did when I screamed. Cops think the noise is worth looking into this time, not last time. Now he's a victim of murder, well so's my soul.

He creeped from the alley with threats. I played him like a guitar, left him soiled and bloody in the very same alley that he crawled out of. I suppose that pocket knives really can't compare to actual daggers. I don't think that he'll think of doing that again.

A kidnapper tried to take me for some warrant. Only one of us made it out of the fire. I'm telling the story now aren't I?" I make eye contact with the reporter. The one who called me a psychopath. Her warm brown eyes commit mydriasis into fear. Wide and wild like a does.

"Thank y-you for y-your ummmm t-thoughts?" She asks. Not at all like the confident reporter who walked in. I smile, stretching the cut sliding down my eye and cheek. My white, bloody teeth biting into the air.

" Thank you for your useless criticism." I reply. Shifting closer. Her curly blonde shimmering in the prison cell's light. Her back stiffens.

" Did you have. . . father issues?" She asks quietly. Leaning back, I laugh.

" Darling. I don't have father issues. I pulled a little stunt. I pulled a trauma reverse."