Cat Pollock Writes

Den of Violence "You know where she is!" I could not help grabbing him by the shirt collar and shoving him against the wall. This was the guy who had Sarah. Every bone in his body straining aginst mine screamed it. "Are you going to tell me yourself, and save a lot of pain, or just try to hold it in and give me the satisfaction of beating you to a pulp in the process of getting what I want from you?" Johnny's shifty, beady green eyes darted from one side of my face to the other. Behind me, the hefty shuffles as his buddies prepared their own assault on me. "Jordan, let him go!" One voice cut through the den of violence. The voice belonging to someone I'd told to stay in the car. Kelly. "You gonna let your woman order you around?" Johnny's voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke, one lip curled up derisively at me. "Or you gonna finish what you started, Crusty?" "You mean what you started?" I igno

One Million Things She fell asleep on my couch, one tear-streaked cheek resting on a dingy yellow throw pillow - Kelly's one flirtation with brightening up my apartment. There were a million things I wanted to do with her, for her, or to her. After I pulled a thin blanket off my bed to cover her, used a corner of it to wipe away the streams that continued to run in her sleep, all I could do was grab the sheet off my bed, curl up in my recliner, and watch her. I'd never taken advantage of a woman when she's lost someone close, and was not about to start with Leigh. Suddenly, a twirl of blond hair poked its head up from the couch. Bloodshot blue eyes sought mine out desperately - tormented, despairing. I imagined I could glimpse the depths of Leigh's own personal hell in those blue eyes, and I wanted to bring her out of it. But there was no way I could. There might be a few moments out, but the time after would deliver her deeper in than anyone could go to save her.

For Sarah “Why do you care?” Gretta stared down at her folded hands, voice not directed at the recorder for the first time since we started talking. Then piercing dark eyes lifted again to meet my gaze full on. “Why do you care? Men like you do these things to girls like me.” The easy answer would have been to say that the thought of so many women and children trapped in that kind of slavery in the world made me sick. While true, those eyes knew there was more to it than that. An American man, in her experience, did not care just because the thought made him sick. In my case… Every rule of interviewing held in high regard demanded I take back control. I was supposed to be directing the conversation, asking the questions and waiting for answers. However, trust is something I value far more than the rules. If they don’t trust me, what is the point? I said nothing right away – just leaned down into my briefcase. Left side, still in its pink and white hearted frame. It went eve