You throw a jacket over your rumpled clothes and head immediately out the door, determined to make that monster pay.  You speed to the police department, driving erradically with fear, degredation and fury.  You fly into the parking lot and park.  You pull yourself from the car, full of resolution.  You make your way up the stone stairs, wincing in pain as you exert the sore muscles of your legs.  You push your way through the glass doors and walk up to the receptionists desk.   The woman at the desk looks up at you and twirls a tendril of hair around her finger. 

 

"Can I help you?"  she asks in a deeply southern accent.  

 

"I need to report a rape"  you blurt out. 

 

"Have a seat and I'll have a detective meet with you shortly." She directs you to a seat against the wall.  You choose a seat between a rough looking biker with his hands handcuffed behind his back and a woman that you can only assume is a prostitute judging by her pink spandex dress with the diamond shaped peepholes from stem to stern.  You sit there, uncomfortably shifting in your chair until the receptionist finally waves you over.  There is something so familiar about her, but you are sure that you would recognize that thick accent if you knew her from anywhere.  She points you to an office in the far corner of the room.   You weave your way through the rows of plastic chairs, most of which are occupies by varying degrees of vagrants and law breakers.   You knock on the opaque door of the office, obviously meant to provide some privacy for the occupants.  A deep voice invites you in.  You sigh a breath of relief, knowing that you are doing the right thing by making a complaint against the monster that attacked you.