July 23rd

[Misscaroline]

So, let me know what you think of this, especially on the point of view and all that jazz. (This is just part one of two.)

July 23rd, by Miss Caroline

It had been a slow start to the morning. My parents, while hanging over my head the eventuality of a trip to the local water park, took to forcing me to relive and continue the argument from the night before. After drilling out every shred and rebuttal from me, they printed the pass, grabbed the sunscreen, and we left. Some fifteen miles down the road, we were able to park the truck and get out, stripping down to our bathing suits (my parents being to cheap to “needlessly” rent a locker) and applying copious sunscreen of a low grade SPF. But as my step father ordered me to put sun tan lotion on his hairy back—which, by the way, is so disgusting—something a few cars down caught our eyes and held our attentions, entranced. A young African-American man was searching around in his gray Trailblazer, swearing to high heavens, with exclamations of “Mother ****er!” and other such expletives. His girlfriend, I presume, was standing by, answering loudly, but not quite so much as him. After a few minutes of this, the woman stalked off in the direction of the gates, and a moment later, the man—having locked up the vehicle—followed her. In a quick glance around the nearby parking lot, I realized we were not the only people hypnotized by this scene—my mother, my stepfather, and I were joined by around a score of distracted park goers taking advantage of the 32°C+ weather. A moment later and our attentions were diverted yet again and I turned my eyes from the stares and glares sent in the direction of the Trailblazer in question. Now, I’m nearsighted—but I still could make out what happened once that woman reached the median at the end of our lane. She got up and stalked halfway across the mulch, and within a moment her boyfriend was at her side, louder and more offensive than ever. She kept trying to walk away, but when she turned and answered one of his many exclamations he did it. That’s exactly when he did it. Keep in mind now, I’m nearsighted and couldn’t see her well, as she was half hidden by a bush. But I still know that’s when he hit her. From about ten or fifteen yards away, you still heard a faintly loud pop. She fell immediately over onto the pavement and let out a yell that bordered on a wail or a yelp. She sobbed on the ground for a few very long moments as she struggled to get up. The man immediately went over the where she sat and jerked her up and hobbledly walked her off back to the car.

[Misscaroline]

Part 2 (hope you guys didn't read this on a bad day):

The spell was broken, and my eyes immediately slid to the license plate of the brooding Trailblazer, thanking the genetic lottery again for the prize of a photographic memory. JXL-1349. Virginia. Within seconds, my mother mentioned that we needed paper; we ought to write the plate number down so that we could remember, so that we could report it. I told her it was JXL-1349. Virginia. She nodded and glanced off towards the stage on which the scene had been set. A security guard had wandered over but was looking puzzled at the bare expanse of grass and pavement that he had been called to mediate. JXL-1349. Virginia. With a glance to the Trailblazer, which the two had now returned to, she hurried off to speak to the guard with the intent to report the incident present in her mind as in all of ours. For a minute, I glanced between my mother telling her story and the Trailblazer; the man had seen fit to place both of them in the vehicle and to leave his parking space, inciting my stepfather to walk onto the nearest stretch of the median and follow them with his stares. JXL-1349. Virginia. What, are they leaving? No, he shakes his head. They’ve parked farther back. I suppose they felt the need to move. I walk over to where my mother is speaking animatedly to the guard. When she reaches the part of the assault, a man nearby—beer in hand—throws in that it was a punch straight to the girl’s face. When my mother has finished regaling the guard with our story, he radioed for backup. JXL-1349. Virginia. Soon after, another guard pulled up in a golf cart. She repeated the story, adding in the make and the plate of the car, and soon another radio called over the local sheriff in his car; another story and a security SUV was called in. JXL-1349. Virginia. My mother went so far as to admonish the guards that he might have a gun, and when asked why she might believe so, she said that he ‘seemed like the type’. As soon as the guards were off to where my stepfather stood, earmarking the correct car where they still hadn’t noticed him, I dragged my mother back because they’d told us to stay back. That’s racial profiling, Mother! You don’t know he has a gun! You say he is prone to violent tendencies, not accuse him of carrying a firearm! JXL-1349. Virginia. The guards took awhile and my stepfather refused to come back; believing this was a pre-show of the next episode of COPS, my mother and I leaned against the golf cart, complaining of the heat and wondering what was happening, all while I was subliminally anxious to go get to the water park and out of the wretched sun. After disappointedly inspecting the security vehicle/golf cart for air conditioning or something moderately entertaining, I resigned myself to waiting for the verdict. JXL-1349… Virginia. At last, the guards—and my criminally-fascinated stepfather—were heading back in our direction. I went to meet them, and when the group had come together, the sheriff took a deep breath. He proceeded to thank us for our concern. And our caring, and our sense of public responsibility and all that junk… But then he explained that here, in the great state of Virginia, a crime without a victim is not a real crime. Even with a complaining witness, the man could not be arrested unless the woman accused him. But the two were denying anything greater than an argument, and so it was out of our hands. He explained that the only way he could claim the crime would be a visual confirmation of the assault, but we all know it wouldn’t bruise so quickly, and only some slight swelling would mark the blow. As is the problem in most states, he said—but wait—wasn’t the plate from Virginia? JXL-1349? Virginia? Yes, but they were from Maryland. So what— was it a rental? Yes. Exactly. In most states, we can’t do anything about domestic violence unless someone convinces the victim to come forwards. As the guards walked off, my mother muttered a sentiment we all sympathized with: but I feel so bad for that poor woman. My parents spent the next minutes discussing the phenomenon of a woman’s faith to a man ruling over her own sense of self preservation, of how a woman could possibly stand by an abusive significant other. I didn’t contribute to the conversation. My ears were still ringing from my mother’s words. She had told me by the golf cart in the blazing late July sun that if any man had treated me like her, that she would hope someone would do the same, and that I would tell the authorities the truth of the assault… but also that if she had been there for such an event, she would kick his ***.