44
-Angel
"Why is that?" Tight Bun Tara asks. When I stare at her, she clarifies: "What 'reality' felt like a slap to the face?"
My back straightens. She knows damn well what. "They said I was lying."
Her eyes move from mine down to the paper in front of her. Pen in hand, she scribbles her notes across the page. "How did that make you feel?"
I scoff. "How do you think?"
"Betrayed?" Her eyebrows lift over the squared rim of her glasses.
I'm very tempted to scream, "DUH!" But calmly explain, "Betrayed is an accurate description."
"Did they tell you what they believe happened? What their theories were?" It's Darren asking this time.
I nod then look at the microphone, remembering I'm supposed to speak. "Yes, they did."
"And can you repeat those theories to me?" Tight Bun Tara asks.
She's probing. Why? A weight settles between my shoulders as I ponder the question. Since the beginning of this interview, Tight Bun Tara has seemed the nicest, or maybe the most accessible of the three people questioning me. The direction she's taking right now and the way her pen keeps flying across her notepad gives me the feeling that I have misjudged her. Maybe her soft demeanor was meant to fool me.
All the faith I had-more than I realized, judging by the rampant disappointment coming on like a wave, vibrating through my chest-all that faith in her, in the belief that she would see me, the person inside; the love and dreams that I've lost . . . the hope.
It's gone.
I can feel myself shrinking, deflated like a popped balloon. Only, I am not trying to block them out. My legs are not curling up, my arms are not clinging to my stomach. Still, I feel as if I am being oppressed, losing energy and I can't stop it. I don't think I want to.
My breathing becomes labored. My eyes lose focus.
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