Free Cesspool by Phil M. Williams

wall behind her and fell in a heap. She pulled her legs to her chest, tucking her chin, and covering her head with her arms. Harold tried to slam the front door, but James stuck his foot inside, forced his way in, and stood between Harold and Brittany.
    “You’re not going touch her anymore,” James said.
    Harold punched James in the jaw with a weak right cross. James was stunned by the blow but uninjured. He shoved the little man, and Harold stumbled backward, falling on the soiled carpet. He scurried to his feet, and James pushed him back down.
    He pointed at Harold. “Don’t fucking move.”
    Harold gritted his teeth, but he stayed on the floor.
    James turned to Brittany, holding out his hand. “Let’s go.”
    She grabbed his hand, and they left the trailer.
    Harold yelled from the front door. “You ain’t gettin’ your stuff, you little whore. You best be watchin’ your back.”
    Brittany hiked with James along the trail in her dirty slippers. She glanced back, her brow furrowed. James pulled her forward. Once they were a safe distance from the trailer, James stopped and inspected her face.
    “Are you okay?” he asked. One eye was black and swollen, partially shut. Her lower lip was split, blood trickled to her chin. Her neck was covered in bluish-black bruises.
    “I have to go back,” she said. “It’s gonna be really bad if I don’t.”
    “Do you want to go back?”
    She shook her hanging head. “But I have to. I don’t have anywhere to go.”
    “We’ll figure it out. Let’s get to my cabin, so we can get you cleaned up, and I can make some calls.” He glanced up at the sky. “It’s about to pour.”
    They entered his cabin. He sat her down at the kitchen table, cleaned her lip, and gave her some ice for her eye.
    “I’m calling the police,” he said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
    She put down the ice, recoiling, her eyes wide. “No, please don’t.” She shook her head. “It won’t do no good.”
    “What he did to you is assault. All you have to do is tell the police what’s happening, and they can make it stop.”
    “They won’t. He’s—”
    “I’m sorry. I can’t sit by and do nothing anymore.” James dialed 9-1-1.
    Brittany sat in silence, icing her eye. James paced, looking out the windows, waiting for the police. He glanced at the clock on his phone. Jesus Christ, it’s been twenty minutes. Where the hell are they? James took the melted ice, and Brittany laid down on the love seat. He gave her a flannel comforter. She covered up and closed her eyes. An hour later, a single police car crept up the driveway. Officer Dale Strickland stepped out of the cruiser. James met him on the porch before he had a chance to knock. He wore dark shades and moved as if he was out for an autumn stroll.
    He lifted his chin to James. “Are you James Fisher?”
    “Yes. We met before.”
    “And you witnessed an assault?” He didn’t acknowledge that they had met.
    “Yes.”
    James told the officer what he had seen and heard.
    “And the complainant is here, in your custody?” Officer Strickland asked.
    “Yes, but I wouldn’t consider her in my custody. She’s here of her own free will.”
    The officer smirked. James opened the door. “Brittany, we’re coming in.”
    She sat up on the love seat. Officer Strickland marched through the door and turned to James. “I’d like to interview her alone ,” he said.
    James waited outside as Officer Strickland talked to Brittany. James peered through the window. Her head was down as the officer spoke. After five minutes of what appeared to be a one-sided conversation, the officer departed the cabin.
    “Are you going to arrest him?” James asked Officer Strickland.
    One side of his mouth turned up in a crooked grin. A few raindrops pelted his shirt. “You gotta have a complainin’ victim. And you didn’t actually see him hit her, did you?”
    James scowled. “I saw him push her pretty hard.”
    “It ain’t enough.”
    The