Disclaimer: Unfortunately I do not own mentalist.
Who are you?
For as long as I can remember it has always been my mum and I, but no father. I don't even know his name, what he looks like or personality. Many of times I have thought about confronting my mother about the man that sired me, but I couldn't bring myself to be the reason for why she looked back at obviously painful memories.
Remembering back to when I was a young girl -barely five years old- I recall my uncle Cho talking to my mother, his gestures were all over the place and he was red in the face, which was so unlike the man I had come to know. Uncle Cho was always so calm, neutral and understanding, almost like the hardships of life didn't faze him. He was the one I went to when I was at the brink of tear because when I was next to him it was like I borrowed that same tranquil feeling he must feel, but that day was different. On that day his face wasn't calm and serene but angry, and frustrated, and what shocked me the most was how my mother was. She was standing in the corner of our kitchen, arms wrapped securely around her body almost shielding herself away, eyes glued to the floor as if shutting everything out. My proud, stubborn, glorious mother who fought crime and saved lives, my beautiful mother known to so many as agent Lisbon leader of the group of CBI agents who sent the notorious serial killer Red John to his death sentence… was looking defeated. I may have only been five at the time but I knew that wasn't right, and to think she was behaving like that in front of uncle Cho, one of her agents! It didn't make sense in till I heard uncle Cho shout 'That damn father of hers' at which my mother finally noticed my presents and took me away to my room while swiftly wiping away one single tear which was rolling down her face.
It has been 10 years since then and the only thing I know about my father was that he was my mother's weakness, that he was the one that caused her pain, that I didn't want to know him, but as I stand here at the foot of my mother's grave I wish he was. I wish he was here for me to yell at. To tell him that it was his entire fault. That if he had been there for her then maybe she wouldn't have had to walk home from work on her own because the car was broken, that maybe then she wouldn't have got hit by that drink driver, that maybe she would still be here with me. To be able to hold me tight while wiping away my tears softly whispering 'everything is going to be ok Abby' just like she would have done if she was alive, but she's not and she never will be all because of him.
Maybe I am being unreasonable in blaming a man that couldn't have foretold the events that took place that day, but the way I see it is that he could have been here right now but he chose not to. My aunt Grace once told me when I was thirteen when I practically demanded that she must tell me why my father wasn't here- but I didn't want to know anything else about him. She only smiled sadly at me not quite looking into my eyes, brushing my golden curls away from my emerald green eyes before finally replying. 'He couldn't. He wanted to, but he said he couldn't so he left where to I don't know' He couldn't? What sort of answer was that? He knew I existed but he didn't want me. He couldn't. Just like he couldn't save my mum the women he created life with. Yes it is now that I wished I knew him, so I could show him how he couldn't, to show him the blood that is now on his hands, because for as long as I live I vow to find him and make him feel the same pain I feel now.
I look up to the heavens as if he was there while quietly muttering to myself 'who are you?'…