Revengeance

Thursday, July 25th, 9:20 am

Some days I enjoy my job. The simple pleasure in obtaining restitution for an injustice served. Other days, I wonder if I'd be happier flipping burgers rather than cooped and confined behind a desk. The number of failed marriages appears to rise with each passing year. Why do people even bother walking down the aisle and exchanging vows? Such vows deemed sacred in a brief, impulsive moment-or at least with enough time to consummate them. A union, in its true form, should become part of your existence. Where when that union breaks, part of your existence is forever changed. Unfortunately, that's becoming less common.

Tapping the pen vigorously to the beat of the disgust building, I focus on the child who, undoubtedly, is caught in the middle. A father who doesn't want to produce the needs for his own child. Too self-absorbed to see that his child has needs, his own flesh and blood. I drop my head into my hands, and the file sits neatly on my desk. As if it's not contaminating my aspirations. Wouldn't it be so much easier to slam this file close and move onto something that doesn't cut so deeply? I run my fingers through my hair in thought. To do so would go against everything I've worked hard to give up and fold. It also wouldn't bode well to get through the remaining large stack of files my boss expects. Files that are surely suffocating my consciousness awaiting examination.

Back to the report that's consumed too much of my mental energy. Mr. Delgado is claiming the victim card stating he shouldn't have to pay child support to his wife of five years. The witless situation has a frown shortly touching my lips. !No Manchas! The gall of someone to think so little of his family. My whole being seethes with shame and anger for this man. Black hunger awakens to enlighten Mr. Delgado he had better respect and cherish his next family. If anyone ever gives him the time of day again. I loathe people who disregard the importance and worth of their families.

Tapping my pen against the paper a little harder, I scan more notes and try to rid the inner turmoil threatening to spill. Mr. Delgado seems to have forgotten his wife quit working to raise their son. At his demand no less. Luckily, Mrs. Delgado is a smart woman. Her resignation from the brokerage firm, she'd been employed with for ten years, indicated she must quit working due to a difficult pregnancy and to raise their child. Now, that's not all that's going to help her case. Mr. Delgado, a high-profile entertainment manager and control-freak made sure to have his lawyer's type up a clause in their marital contract to ensure his wife became a permanent stay-at-home mom. !Oy! What was she thinking to sign such a document? Seemingly, it's an easy argument. Simple to prove that over the last five years, she's distanced herself from the workforce and will need the child support to help sustain their son until she can get back on her feet. For such an affluent man, Mr. Delgado is a top-notch idiot.

Scribbling a few notes down, I close the ruthless file and toss it onto a heaping pile for my secretary, Lexi, to handle from here. With elbows on the desk, I rub my temples in an attempt to push exhaustion away, the fatigue I've grown to crave, thrive on is more like it. Slowly opening my eyes, my gaze drifts, taking a mental inventory of the mundane objects littering the surface. Standard, ordinary stuff you would find on one's desk. I can hear Lexi's tsk-tsk now with a muttered 'clutter' as if I'm not right there listening. Briefly, my eyes catch it, and I give into temptation. The prized golden frame stands out amongst the deep mahogany surface.

Stands as it should.

Chills sweep up my spine at the image, and I try to shake it off. The photo was taken six years ago but seems light-years away. Only days before my life morphed into something foreign up and inconceivable. The faces are smiling back; I fear are strangers with each passing day — a fleeting fairytale of my imagination. The painfully familiar thump begins, its acceleration along with the swell growing thicker around my heart as painful flashes take me back to the moment my life changed. I changed. The moment life seemed to have drifted along with the wind and vanished.

"One day the skies will clear," Gram and Gramps would tell me. Really? Do I honestly believe that? Doubt begins to creep in.

A deep lump of rage wells up. Dredging up memories isn't going to change the past as much as I wish and pray it could. Memories can be a double-edged sword: on one side you're grateful for the pictures and moments you captured, turn the sword over, and all I want to do is break the damn thing as reality rears its ugly head. Memories are determined to leave me feeling things I don't have time to deal with right now.

If I'm honest with myself, I'll never have time. A time I'd assume didn't exist. But damn if those thoughts are a contradiction to the purpose of me sitting here right now. "One day, the skies will clear." I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. Deep calming breaths. Years of therapy at least taught me something.

The pulse in my head begins to subside; my fingertips start to move like a robot towards the next file needing attention. I abruptly stop and lean into the soft comfort surrounding me like a hug and close my eyes — further thoughts pause. I need to stay focused. Even if I don't find closure, at least I'm safe. Between the smiling strangers and the Delgado's case, I make no qualms that marriage is not on my radar. Nor will it ever be. Numbers don't lie, and there is no way I ever want to be one of the 40-50% failed marriage statistics. A ring startles me. It evaporates the short reprieve.

Sitting up straighter, I answer, "Meredith Fitzgerald," silently praying it's not a client.

"Yo, hoochie mama! Whatcha doing?" She booms.

The air I was holding releases in a rush. "Nothing much." A loud 'pop' followed by smacking follows suit. "Will you please stop chewing gum when you're on the phone with me? You sound like an animal." I spout.

"You mean you don't like this," another obnoxious, irritating bubble pops. She dramatically sucks the contents of the explosion clearly for my benefit and my benefit alone.

I pick up a small canister, twist off the lid and proceed to ignore my best friend. "Who's a pretty boy today?" I cooed releasing a few flakes floating on the surface of the water until eaten.

"I swear you care more about fish than you do me." I can picture her rolling her eyes-something she does a lot. I smile and start to retort, but she continues. "Can we please drop by Hansen's tonight?"

"Yeah, well Mr. Finn isn't obnoxious like you. What happened?"

"Douche canoe. Douche Canoe is what happened. He freaking spun a web and got the evidence I was counting on thrown out." She spats her 'go-to' name for lawyers sitting on the other side of the fence. It could be a sweet, cookie-baking grandma and if she crosses Anna, she'd call her a 'douche canoe' vehemently.

"I'm sorry. Remember the prosecutor's job is to fight for their client regardless if they're guilty. Will you be able to work around that?"

"You mean do I have enough to work without that evidence? Yeah, I think so. It's just going to be complicated. Ugh, I need to blow off some steam." She sighs.

The stack of files in clear vision weighs heavy on my thoughts. "Okay," I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.

"Seriously? Damn that was easy."

"Wait a sec—"

"My phone's ringing gotta go. See you in a few. Love you!" She sings hanging up before I can call her out on her baloney.

Nice play, Anna. Good play indeed.