Long Live the King

"I was eight years old the first time I heard his name." Shifting in the hard plastic seat, my wrists are shackled to a metal chain link at the center of the table, limiting my mobility. The officer observes my discomfort passively, already impatient and annoyed with my recollection of events. "I was thinking a little more recent, Miss Clark. Like why you were caught standing outside his home with a bloody—" "No, no, you don't understand. I need to start at the beginning. So you can understand," I enunciate, not trusting Officer Dougher, an overworked, underpaid, exhausted, dispassionate cop, to actually comprehend the beauty of my tale. A tired sigh escapes me, not from lack of sleep but disappointment. Officer Dougher waves his fingers, gesturing for me to continue. I don't trust him, but this is the end of the line. The metal handcuff digs into my wrist as I adjust in my seat so I can really get into the story. Ignoring the pinching skin, I lean forward, welcoming him into my world. I think back to that day, so many years ago now. Curled up in a ball on the lumpy, plaid couch, the edges of the cushions fraying, made worse when I ran my fingers along the seams. Shivering as the winds howled and rattled the single-pane glass windows of my friend's tiny cabin on Cliff Island, off the coast of Maine.