Crouching down, she grabs her glasses that I threw away earlier and puts them on, using them as some sort of armor, a weapon against the world.
Or maybe just against me.
“I have a condition.”
“A condition? What makes you think you’re in a position to have those? I have your laptop, remember?”
“I won’t tell you anything unless you agree to my condition.”
“And what is that?”
She inhales a deep breath, places her hand on her chest, then says, “Can’t you accept that woman’s case?”
I narrow my eyes. “Were you spying on me?”
“I just…happened to be passing by.”
“For such an excellent liar, you’re doing a rubbish job with your speech pattern right now. But it doesn’t matter, because the answer is no.”
A frown appears between her delicate brows and she drops her hand from her chest. “Why not? She was obviously abused.”
“How do you know that?”
“She had purple marks on her wrist that she was hiding with makeup. It’s typical behavior shown by abused women.”
“And you’re an expert because…”
“Mom was in an abusive relationship and I witnessed it all. From the beatings to the lying to the flinching. All of it. I was there when she used foundation to hide the bruises but I wasn’t there when she sent me to the neighbor in order to protect me. It takes a lot of courage to go against one’s abuser. I know, because Mom couldn’t, and when she did, it was already too late. So please, help that woman if you can.”
I pause, lowering my hand with the laptop to my side. The emotions in her voice are so raw and real. More real than anything I’ve heard from her before. I always suspected that she was hiding something, that she was cunning and conniving for a reason, but I never thought it would be this.
She’s not even focused on her laptop anymore, only me. There’s desperation in her stiff posture, in the way she continuously adjusts her glasses and touches her chest as if that keeps her rooted in the moment.
I flex my fingers on the laptop. “Why was it too late?”
“What?”
“You said your mum couldn’t ask for help and when she did, it was too late. Why?”
“Because…” She strokes the edge of her glasses, clutches her shirt in her fist, then swallows thickly. “Because…the person she asked for help wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor.”
“And you think I am?”
“You’re a lawyer.”
“Doesn’t make me a hero.”
“A hero is the last thing women like my mom and that girl need.”
“Why is that?”
“Because heroes follow rules and think about the world’s wellbeing. They’re shackled by outdated codes of honor and self-imposed morals, and that might work in a black and white platonic idealism, but that’s not reality, that’s not how it works. In life, sometimes, the hero has to turn into a villain.”
“Is that what I am? A villain?”
“I heard you could be if the situation requires it.”
“So I’m a part-time villain?”
“I prefer the term, dark warrior of justice.”
“And do you believe in that? Justice?”
“I have to, because if I don’t, I’ll have nothing to believe in, nothing to hope for, and that’s just…too bleak to think about.” She stares at me for that fraction of a second, then lowers her head. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Believe in justice?”
“Not really.”
“Then…why did you become a lawyer?”
“Because justice fucked me over once upon a time and I’m fucking it right back. It’s a grudge of sorts. Justice and I have what people call a love-hate relationship.” No clue why the fuck I’m telling her all of this when I don’t talk about it with anyone, not even T.
My perception about justice has been warped ever since I was a kid, and it only got more complicated as I grew up. I hate justice most of the time, but using it has been giving my life meaning.
However, I don’t like others finding out about my relationship with it, so the fact that I just told her all that is a first.
It could be because she opened up about her mother. Could be because of the way she steals glances at me, even though her head is usually lowered, worshipping the ground.
Or maybe it’s due to the fact that I discovered another depth to her, one that’s toying with my fucking shadows, and I want those gone.