Forgotten Space

I don’t know what to expect when I walk into the courthouse carrying the emergency PFA and police documents. The elevator sign on the first floor directs us towards the seventh floor: Protection From Abuse Office. Reading the sign makes me want to vomit. My brain is in a fog – barely processing but at the same time, hyper vigilant to every white man similar to his description: mid to late 30s, dark hair, dark eyes, fists clenched.

My mom is standing next to me, but I still feel alone. This is my burden to carry. It is my fault we are in this situation, and I am the only person who can make it better.

We follow the signs off the elevator and down the hallway. I enter the room first and instantly want to run away. It is so crammed. It isn’t even the size of a lobby. It feels more like an old closet or forgotten bathroom stall space. An afterthought – built due to necessity but not importance.

The chairs are mismatched. Crammed side by side lining the room. To the right, there is a frosted glass window with a sign held by yellowed tape: Ring Bell for Paperwork.

This is my life. Ringing a bell to alert others to our abuse but we already feel unheard.

I touch the bell. Within a few moments, a woman appears and hands me a stack of papers. She tells me to write my name on the list and someone would be with me shortly.

Why is the number of abused so long that we must be added to a list and wait our turn? Why does this feel like a normal Monday to everyone else?

I sit down. Overwhelmed and defeated. I start to look around: there are two other women in the room and more standing by the door.

I look down at the paperwork: Indicate the relationship between the plaintiff and defendant. Check all that apply:  spouse or former spouse of defendant, parent of a child with defendant, current or former sexual partner with defendant.

The woman to my left must be on the same page. She sighs: “What does this even mean?” She looks up at me then at the door. “What boxes do I check?”

She hasn’t addressed anyone specifically but she keeps looking at me, so I ask: “Do you need help?”

“Yes please. I am stuck on the first page. I can’t read real good and I left my glasses at home. They rushed me out and the shelter didn’t have any pairs today.”

I read the top part to her. She says: “I still don’t know what that means. Who am I?”

I realize she is stuck on the words: plaintiff and defendant. I explain, “You are the plaintiff and they want to know the relationship you have with the person who you want to be protected from with the PFA.”

She pauses. She looks like she might cry and stares at the door again.

“I am not sure. My husband is really mean to me but he is okay to the kids. My dad is older and cannot take care of us so I had to leave my kids behind. They dropped me off at the homeless shelter but I don’t know how long I can stay. Maybe I should just go.”

She starts picking at her nails, ripping her cuticles so hard she starts to bleed.

We look up at a sudden commotion. Two women walk in together. They are taking up a lot of space – physical and mental. Their voices are too loud for the room.

One woman walks straight to the window and starts knocking on it. I feel like the whole thing might shatter into tiny pieces, cutting everyone in its path, but she keeps knocking.

The woman behind the glass appears almost immediately and says, “Hello Minerva. How are you today? I’ll add you to the list.” She looks around the woman, “Is Ashley here, too?”

“Yup we are both here. My asshole husband is at it again.”

I try to make sense of their connection.

Minerva appears to be in her 50s. Brown hair mixed with grey that is wild and unwashed. She is wearing an oversized t-shirt and torn sweatpants with slides.

Ashley looks like she is in her late teens, early 20s. She has black hair pulled into a ponytail. Her outfit is more put together – jeans, tank top and a jacket with fur around the hood. Maybe she is her daughter? They sit down next to each other.

I try to refocus my brain on the woman next to me and her paperwork. We barely make it to the next page when a man comes barging in. He is flailing through the room – it looks like his limbs are not cooperating, moving in all directions. He reeks of alcohol, stale cigarettes, and filth. He is muttering under his breath. Minerva jumps up: 

“You better get the fuck out of here, Ray. I’m calling the police.” 

“Sit down, you slob. You already called the police, but you are the crazy bitch who won’t leave me alone, so I am here to get my own PFA.” 

“Here we go,” says Ashley, pushing up her sleeves and exiting the room.