The Inkwell Dispatch

I was looking for a dress for a birthday party on a Tuesday when I found my victim care card. A misjudged yank from the top shelf of my wardrobe brought down a flurry of paperwork I had hastily shoved into a shoebox – I’m prone to cramming my furniture full and closing the door. Letters, reports and paperwork fell around me, but a small piece of folded card landed decidedly centered; folded and sat pertly at my feet. A Police Scotland emblem peaked from the seam, its thistles unmistakable. I know this piece of paper, and it wasn’t one I had intended to visit today. 2 minutes prior, I was a girl looking for an old dress. I had wanted to opt for a more sustainable option than buying new for the event and hadn’t managed to visit any vintage shops in the run up to the party, which was now the next day. I knew that I had stuffed some old clothes from my teenage years into the back top shelf of my wardrobe, and thought I’d check to see what fit nowadays. Either way, I’d find a new outfit or have more items to sell on Vinted. Quickly, the dresses were forgotten about. I only had one thing on my mind.  

I let my thumbs trace the card’s crease, reminded of the shaking fingers that had first folded it years before. The hands of the 17-year-old who had first grasped the paper weren’t ready for its weight, and I can feel them begin to buckle as I hold it now. Three years is a long time, but not long enough. By now I’m sitting on the floor, and I let the card sit with me. “Incident/crime reference: 3056. Crime reported: Domestic Abuse. Date Reported: 18/12/22”. These are the words held by the fold, and I know them like scripture. They are the handwritten scrawls of two officers at my kitchen table, where I described in excruciating detail the events I had promised myself I’d take to the grave.  

The 18^th of December 2022 had been a Sunday night, and I didn’t go to school the next morning. It would have been a laugh, the last day or so before the Christmas break, and the last time I’d get to experience the joys of teachers chucking movies on for the final periods of term. Instead, I stayed home and lay in bed. I couldn’t fathom what I’d done yet, and it seemed there was no way I would be able to. The Polar Express at 9am on Monday morning is already a tough prospect without the added weight of my report. I keep fiddling with the card, each turn washing me with new memories. I didn’t cry until the very end of the ordeal, I remember. I felt it was important to stay stoic whilst explaining to them what had happened. Like if I didn’t cry, and only spoke matter-of fact, I could ignore the emotion attached to it. The officer matched my tone, and we exchanged pragmatic questions and answers like twisted businessmen. Our factuality kept my face dry, so there aren’t quite the right words to describe the type of tears that flowed after the final answer when the female officer reached across my kitchen table to pat my hand, and whisper “well done darling”. She slipped the card into my hands, and the rest of the night is blurred. I don’t want to remember.  

I fold the card along the other axis, newly creasing its cross section, before it goes back into the box. I pick a dress to dance and laugh in, surrounded by my friends who I am eternally grateful for. I feel beautiful and allow myself to acknowledge it. I get tipsy on prosecco and drink to my new life. What a lovely one it is.  

I’ve lost the girl who came before this one, and I relinquish my grasp on her with a bittersweet acceptance. She never had the opportunity to blossom fully, but each day I carry a piece of the scared 17-year-old with me and allow it to fuel the fullness to which I live at 20. Maybe that is the price I pay for rooting around in the back of my wardrobe, rifling through old boxes for outgrown clothes. Every day, I restrain myself from the ultimate upturn of old memories. I can only choose to keep them at arm’s length. Once again, I choose not to be Incident/Crime Reference 3056. Today, I’m just a girl looking for a dress for a birthday party on a Tuesday. Nothing more, and never anything less.