Guilt is an interesting thing. The way it can control you. The way it can eat you alive. Destroy you. The way it can make you do things you'd never dream of doing, make you feel things you've never felt, force you to make decisions that you, in your right mind, would never make. It's a powerful thing, guilt, and there is but one antidote, forgiveness.

Olivia Pope has done things, terrible things by her own admission. Her job is to fix people. Fix situations. Fix things that are beyond the control of others. It's something she's always enjoyed, although she didn't know why she was drawn to it for a very long time.

Olivia has always had a strong set of core beliefs. Belief that people, if given the right information, will make the right decision most of the time. Belief that people are innately good and when they go wrong, it's often not because of maliciousness, it is because they feel trapped, or don't think things through, or don't know what else to do. She isn't naïve enough to think that there aren't some bad apples, bad to the core, but they are beyond her help anyway and would never ask for it.

As a child, she was a dreamer. A big dreamer. It was something her parents fostered in her, to believe that she could do or be anything. So, while other kids were outside playing, she was getting lost in the world created by great authors or the visuals created by brilliant Hollywood minds.

She was a child who didn't like Disney. She was a child of Merchant Ivory, losing herself in the worlds of the grief and sorrow of classic characters. Long after the closing credits, she'd sit and think about how she could've fixed the pain of the characters. It was the foundation for what would later become her life's work.

Olivia was thirteen when "the incident" occurred. Dreams of it haunt her to this day. She could see herself dancing as Black Swan, spinning and spinning and not becoming dizzy because she was in her element, ballet and her parents, to her knowledge, were sitting in the audience, rooting for her. As she fell to the ground after her final move, her chest heaved from exhausted and exhilaration, celebration and sadness.

She heard some in the audience who said "No thirteen year old has ever danced it better." She remembers going backstage and her fellow dancers congratulating her for her achievement. She can still see her ballet instructor's face as he moved closer to her. The twisting in her gut as she doubled over in pain, dreading what would come. Something was wrong and she knew it.

His arm went around her shoulder and he whispered something to her. She doesn't remember what he said, but he led her to a quiet place. An office, small, dirty. She remembers the paint stain on the floor that must've been there for years. The smell of sweat and years of neglect waffling through the air. The sound of the chair scraping against the ground as he pulled it out and asked her to have a seat. She did.

She watched his lips as they moved, but she didn't hear his words. It was he who cried on her shoulders. It was she who comforted him. And later, when family friends came to pick her up, it was he who walked her to the car, told her to call if she needed anything.

It wasn't until days later, at the funeral, she understood the words she could not hear. Her mother and father died as they had lived, together. Side-by-side in identical caskets. So peaceful, they looked. If she looked closely, she could see their smiles.

It was a car accident. A truck, the driver never saw them, according to his statement which she would only read years later. They were coming to see her dance lead in "Swan Lake". For as much as she loved her imagination and getting lost in worlds created by others, she loved to dance even more. She'd practiced daily, nightly, and any other time her schedule would allow. She would be the "perfect swan," she told her mother over breakfast the very last time she saw her. The strange thing is, at thirteen, she was the perfect swan. She had a gift of accessing the kind of emotion that was far beyond her years. Of going to a place in her head and simply losing herself and becoming who or what she needed to be.

After the funeral, she did not speak again for five years. Though she lived with friends of her parents, she did not consider their home, her home. Did not consider their food, her food. For as hard as they tried to make her feel at home, she never did. Nor would she for a very, very long time.

Olivia was a broken child. Shattered may be a more accurate word. Not a day passed that she didn't think of them and blame herself. If only she hadn't danced. If only they weren't coming to see her. The guilt, the guilt took away her voice; she became mute as her soul turned dark.

She threw herself into her schoolwork. Her passion for dancing didn't just fade, she cut it off like a dead appendage. Instead, she would focus on school, on getting out as quickly as she could so she could leave the memories behind and try to forget. She hoped she could forget.

But night came. And that's when she was at her worst. A zombie as she forced herself to eat and drink, just enough to survive. She would disappear into her bedroom long after her caretakers bid her goodnight, and there she would sit for hours in silence. It was a cycle, home, homework, eat, drink, goodnight and think.

Sleep did not come easily. She would see them. How they would smile at her for no reason. How they told her over and over they loved her. How they encouraged her to see the beauty in everyone and everything. How they believed she could make the impossible, possible, because she was an extraordinary person. Though she rarely weeped for them, as she was sure it was a sign of weakness, she felt their presence all around.

Her caretakers, Joanne and Don Roberts, were lovely people. Olivia's parents made a pact with them long before their deaths that if anything happened, they would step in and raise her. They had been friends for years and Olivia's mom, Carolyn, had warned them about their very grown up and eccentric child. Said she was brilliant, but could sometimes get lost in her head. That she was willful, and would do whatever she thought was right, and she usually was. That she had a strong moral compass and was giving to a fault. Most importantly, she was the kind of child who needed space to flourish, so when dealing with her, it was best to "let her do her."

Joanne and Don Roberts were taken aback when the topic of who would raise Olivia if a hypothetical situation occurred came up. Carolyn Pope, it was rumored, had a touch of the power. She was in tune with nature, with the world, with her gut. So whenever Joanne and Don thought back to that night, they both knew Carolyn was preparing them for the inevitable.

When Olivia didn't speak the first few nights with them, they chalked it up to shock. They'd simply given her a chalkboard upon which she could write her requests or answer their questions. As nights spanned to weeks and then months, they grew increasingly worried. Yet, they could hear Carolyn's voice to "let her do her", so they did nothing.

Months turned into years and so on, and by year 1, they'd developed a comfortable method of communication. She excelled academically, so when she wrote on her chalkboard that she wanted to go to boarding school, they did not object.

Boarding school was something that was always Carolyn's master plan for Olivia. Not that she wouldn't miss her daughter, but because doors would be opened for her that she never dreamed. She shared her dream for Olivia when she was very young, and every so often, she would mention it as though she was preparing her for the day when her life would change.

It was there that Olivia re-discovered her voice. Her first day actually, when the chalkboard would no longer suffice. When she sat down with Dean Cyrus Beene, who insisted on meeting the young woman who earned a perfect score on her admissions exam.

He'd been warned that she was brilliant, yet challenging. He'd prepared by digging into her background and learning her story. Heartbreaking, yet it was the thing that would bond them forever. He too lost his parents at a young age, something that haunted him for many, many years.

When she was shown into his office, he was struck by the sadness in her eyes. They were big and brown, and expressed a world of emotion. She didn't smile. She carried herself with the confidence of a woman twice her age, and walked with a slight tilt of her shoulders, as though they carried a burden much to heavy.

She looked around his office, taking it all in. Taking mental snapshots. His bookshelves were stocked with political books and classics, with some academic books mixed in. His selection spoke volumes about his goals in life, something not lost on her. Immediately she felt a connection as she loved politics as well. Loved how decisions made at a local, state and national level could impact everyone's life. Loved the theory of democracy, if not its practice.

He'd extended his hand to her, which she gladly accepted, looking him straight in the eyes. Something else she learned from her mother and was reinforced by her father, James.

Cyrus began by congratulating her on her acceptance to such a prestigious school, and gave her the usual talk about how selective the school is and how she's in great company. She would be a magnificent addition. He spoke of presidents past and future who have and will walk the halls of this sacred institution. He told her nothing she didn't already know, but she listened.

He stared at her for the longest time and she stared back, refusing to break eye contact. He took a deep breath and then told her his story. She listened patiently, but he could see the change in her eyes as the brokenness she'd carried in her soul for so long, bubbled to the surface until it overflowed. Tears rolled down her cheeks. He let her grieve. He heard her sobs and the muffled sounds of her voice, "It was my fault. It was my fault."

The guilt, all the years of guilt streamed out of her steadily, like a clown's handkerchief that had no beginning or ending. She grieved for all the yesterdays she had with them, and tomorrows they would never see. Would they be proud of her? She would never know.

As her sobs quieted, Cyrus sat down next to her. Took her hand and reassured her that what happened was not her fault. A different person may have said something spiritual, but that's not who he was or who he would ever be. Instead, he told her that she had an opportunity at this school to be great. That he would be her mentor. They were alike, he said, and they had to stick together.

True to his word, Cyrus was there for her. The nights when she was at her loneliest, she would call him and they'd talk. About politics mostly. Sometimes, about life, but she was so guarded, it was difficult to pry anything out of her.

Even more difficult was getting her to smile. Or have fun. Or engage in any "normal" activity for a person of her age. She was a faculty favorite for her focus, determination and intelligence. She put her head down and did the work. Fun, she thought, was for people who were happy or wanted to be happy. She wanted and deserved neither. When she told this to Cyrus, he wanted to weep for her, but he knew she did not tolerate tears.

There were plenty of boys who liked her. From afar. Whenever they tried to get close the defense mechanisms in the form of an electrified fence, moat and brick wall were on full display. Because she wasn't interested, they determined she must be a lesbian and teased her about it relentlessly. She didn't care. It was merely background noise to her. They deemed her frigid, she deemed herself "too mature" for them.

The Roberts family were ever present. Checking on her weekly. Attending school events and she appreciated their presence. They were especially pleased when she re-discovered her voice, a fact they would never have known had Cyrus not called. They were disappointed, though not upset, that she hadn't called them herself. They'd grown accustomed to her behavior.

The guilt though, it was ever present. Never silent. What she'd learned and no one else knew, was to coexist with it. She let it simmer, not boil. Let it nibble at her.

This life she was living wasn't about her, it was about them. Making choices that would make them proud. Doing things that would make them smile, especially her mother, with whom she shared an unbreakable bond.

So, when she chose Yale, the alma mater of no one in her family, over Harvard, the school both parents attended, it was because she could hear her mother's voice telling her to travel her own road. And when she chose pre-law over medical school, it was her mother's voice telling her she had a gift, a touch of the power, that would serve her clients well. And when she graduated in three years at the top of the class, it was her mother's voice telling her she could do anything if she set her mind to it.

It was her father's voice, however, that she heard when it came to romance, or the potential of romance. Him telling her men could not be trusted with her heart. That relationships, more often than not, were complicated messes that too many people stayed in for convenience and fear. His words telling her men would never fully appreciate her. His intention was never to be mean, but he was a pessimist at his core, a man who acted like the happiest man on earth when he just may have been the saddest.