Chapter One: Hot Topic

I remember when my mother found me in that hotel room; it was my birthday, and I was wearing this impressive ballgown; it made me feel grown-up, and it probably cost more than my adoption did twofold. Fifteen; that's how old I was when my mother discovered that I was sexually active; I'd been raped at fourteen and she sure as hell knew about that at the drop of a hat. I tried playing it off, but of course, when your mom is a cop, she has friends who are cops; in my state of mind, all I really saw was she was trying and succeeding at ruining my birthday...

I remember practically screaming when the bedroom door was shoved open and the lights were flicked on in one motion. There was a small glass table in the center of the bed, I remember that; I also remember Ryder, resident bad boy/cool kid, had taken out his likely bounced or expired credit cards and used it to cut the drugs, their white power littering the glass surface. On my arm was an I.V.; the heroin was entering my bloodstream faster than the speed of light. And, at the center of it all, is me, naked, joint in my mouth, sitting beside Ryder; he was most certainly not Jason—my fake, choir-boy boyfriend; he was an older guy I knew and hung around with, sometimes without Mom's permission; I'd thought he was badass, especially with a name like Ryder Knox. I could see how shocked she was, my adoptive mother, who had taken me into her home because I'd asked her to. What I didn't know was what shocked her more—that Ryder and I had slept together, or the mini drug cartel we seemed to be running out of the hotel room. I could tell Ryder wasn't sure either, due to the pleased-yet-frightened look on his face at my cop mother staring at us.

"This gonna turn out to be a three-way?" Ryder asks, a rather fat joint in between his teeth.

Shut up, I think instantly; the last thing I wanted was a lecture about propriety from this nun/mother I had...

"Liv! Fin!" she shouted, and the two of them are in there instantly—Detectives Benson and Tutuola, my mother's closest friends—the shock on their faces more than likely an exact copy of mine.

"M—om!" I shout. "Why you gotta s-stop all the fun?! Why c-can't you j-just let me do me?!"

"Because this isn't you," she replies, and, to my horror, she sounds like the exact opposite of who she really is—cold. "This isn't you, Edythe—this is not my daughter, and this is certainly not how I brought you up! I can't believe..."

"Mom, come on," I say, pulling the needle from my arm and throwing it across the room with a clatter; damn, that hurt. "Let's just go back to the party and dance and laugh and have fun..."

"No." She watches me as I slip out of the bed anyhow, and I feel relief wash over me when Fin and Olivia look away as I make a quick grab for my matching bra and underwear. "No, Edythe, you're not going back there," she says, as I turn back towards her.

"Wha—what?" I asked, utterly confused.

"Your call," Fin tells me, as I look from one cop to the other.

"Yeah, Maggie," Olivia says softly. "Whatever you want."

Whatever she wants?! I'd thought at the time. Who's the birthday girl here?!

"Arrest him," my mother says, nodding to Ryder.

"With pleasure," Fin says, stepping forward. "Get your boxers back on, you creep," he tells him, throwing them at Ryder, who is surprisingly compliant as I immediately step away from the scene. "Get up," Fin says unforgivingly, throwing Ryder's clothes at him as they make their way out of the room. "You're under arrest for the rape of Edythe Grayson and contributing to the delinquency of a minor!"

Ryder laughs, trying to play it off. "Yeah, man, I don't know about..."

"Shut up!" says Fin. "That girl—that girl back there—she's fifteen man, fifteen for god's sake!" he yells as the elevator doors open. "Get inside there. Let's go!" Fin hauls Ryder out of there, as Ryder protests over and over again that it wasn't rape, which, of course, in the eyes of the law, it was.

"What about Edythe?" Olivia says as I attempt to get situated by slipping my dress back on all my own—I guess I couldn't get any help tying the laces anymore. "I'll bet if she pled guilty, they'd make her do rehab for three months and that'd be the end of it..."

I hear my mother sigh, and her eyes on me as she looking over. I did my best not to look at her—she'd successfully ruined my night, and that had been her intention all along, that was clear. All she cared about were the bio kids she'd had with my dad, and I would play second fiddle to them no matter what. My mind flashed ahead, and I wondered what would happened if they found themselves in a similar situation to this one...

"Arrest her," she tells Olivia.

My stomach drops, turning to look at my mother, who looks totally and completely unemotional as Olivia sighs.

Olivia nods, knowing she must do her job. "Done." She mercifully waits until I've finished dressing, and Olivia stepped towards me and takes me by the arm, and I swing around to face her, my eyes pleading, something that Olivia takes little to no notice of. "Edythe Grayson, you're under arrest for juvenile drug possession," she says, leading me away from my mother—who, meanwhile, is looking at me like se doesn't even know me—and out of there.

"What the hell, Mom?!" I demand, my voice cracking.

Olivia takes no notice and continues pulling on me out of the hotel room, amid my screams of protest. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney," Olivia continues as the elevator doors open.

"Mom!" I scream. "What are you doing this to me, you fucking bitch?!" I yell, and my mother takes no notice.

Olivia continues as if she hasn't been interrupted, "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you..." She says until the doors close with a slam.

I was promptly locked up in juvenile detention, as soon as Olivia had dropped me off; I said nothing as I was taken in. I remember the guards laughing at me when I appeared in my dress; if it hadn't been winter, they would've guessed I was involved in some prom night scheme, although my birth certificate would have said otherwise. I filled out the damned paperwork, the question Have you ever been raped stared out at me. I promptly checked 'yes' and finished the form; I barely even remember what half of it said. I handed over my personal belongings before being shown to the single stall, bolted window, ladies room, where I was given a slip to walk down the hall to be physically examined. I felt relief when it was a woman doing the exam, but not when she shook her head at me.

"Strip," she ordered, and I felt my last ounce of relief leaving me then.

Turning away from her, I took off the paper gown and the woman took it from me, throwing it into the trash can nearby. I was told to lift my arms and spread my legs, and I imagined myself on a faraway beach somewhere, doing a yoga pose with that Asian guy with the silky black hair, who always wore it in a long ponytail. The woman's hands on me were cold and unfeeling—which, I suppose, you would want in this situation—as they roved over the surface of my skin. Then, came the internal exam, right after she'd gone over my thighs. I stiffened automatically when she examined me both in front and in back, and she had the nerve to swat me on my ass when I dared to disturb her job.

I remained silent throughout the ordeal before she said I could stand normally again; I was then escorted to the showers next door by another guard, who took there while I methodically washed myself. I focused on the drab décor—the showers were done up in this pale-yellow tile that lacked emotion and appeared to be assembled quickly. The woman had gone to a linen cupboard across the bathroom and had gotten me out some clothes in my size—underwear, camisole, undershirt, pants, and a short-sleeved outer shirt, all in a gross, unappealing grayish-purple, which I was told to put on as soon as I got out of the shower.

Far cry from a ballgown, I thought ruefully, lowering my eyes to the cool, concrete floor as I dressed myself quickly. The woman took me by the arm again and brought me down the hall, out of the bathroom, and into what looked like a scary, cheap camp cabin. All the bunk bed frames were a weak, cheap metal with chipped paint, and the mattresses were some of the thinnest I'd ever seen. I was then given an additional sheet and thin blanket and told to go to sleep immediately, as it was after lights' out; I curled into a fetal position, and ignored any efforts made by the other girls to talk to me.

I had to wait until the following morning to move, and was promptly told that some strings had been pulled and I'd been granted a court date during wake up, which was at six a.m. I shivered; it was a cool morning and I guessed they didn't think that delinquent girls needed any form of heating; the uniforms—or jumpsuits, as I'd heard them called by the other girls—were a flimsy cotton material that didn't do any good at keeping you warm. I was led to the main room briefly, my dress returned, although in crummy condition; I was told a small would be waiting for me after an unappealing, uneventful breakfast. I was also told that the car would transport me to court, and I was led there by a male guard this time, one who grinned at me as he groped my breasts in one of the deserted hallways close to the front doors.

After I was put into the car, the driver said nothing to me, and, once we arrived, there was another guard waiting for me to bring me inside. Once I stepped out, the man had me by the arm and took me in via a back door, and I immediately saw old-timey cells. At once, I began to thrash—no way. No way in hell...

"No!" I screamed, trying to get away, getting flashbacks—one of my punishments as a very little girl, before I was adopted, Jake would lock me up in these dog crates originally meant for Dobermans or something; needless so say, cages and I did not mix. "Don't put me in there!" I shouted.

Losing his patience, the guard unlocked the cell and threw me inside, locking the door behind me. "Keep quiet about that, you little bitch," he hissed through his teeth. "Someone like you? You'll be back. Besides, no one would believe a drug addict about mistreatment, now would they?" he asked, his cruel laughter still echoing in my head as he walked off.

My tears keep my cheeks warm; it was at least another hour until my hearing, so I could only sit in various places of the cell. Sobbing, I rocked back and forth upon the insignificant little wooden bench—attached to the wall, of course—provided, and cross my fingers for something good to happen.

I must've fallen asleep, because the next thing I'm aware of is expensive shoes clicking on the floor. Looking up, I see two familiar people are being brought to the back where I am located, and I feel the onset of tears come when I spot that my mother is one of them. Her eyes rove over me then, and widen at the sight of my dress—frightfully dirty—as tears fall down her cheeks.

"Mom!" I shout, tears flowing freely down my face as I gets to my feet, gripping the bars of the cell in front of me.

"Sweetheart," she says, all her resolve appearing to have gone as the door is unlocked and she and some gentleman clad in an expensive, Armani suit step inside there with me. I immediately throw my arms around her and weep onto her suit jacket.

"I'm so, so sorry, Mom!" I say, sobbing. "I didn't mean to, I swear!" I pull back then when I fully sense John behind her, and hastily look him up and down. "I'm not... You're not...? Who is that?"

"John Buchanan," the man says, putting out his hand. "I'm an attorney, and I work for your mother. I'm here to represent you."

"Attorney?" I whispers, turning to look at my mother.

"He's the best, sweetheart."

"If you tell me the whole, honest truth," John tells me quietly, "I promise you that you will not spend another moment in jail, and that you can go home with your mother today."

I look at my mother in fear. "The whole truth?"

She nods. "That's the only way to resolve this, sweetheart."

I sigh, shaking. "Okay. Okay, I'll tell you everything." I sit down at the wooden table in the center of the cell, and John and my mother move to sit with me. "Ryder was a friend from school—a senior—before he dropped out last spring. Ryder was...he was different," I say, lowering her eyes. "At first, it was just some drinks —fruity ones, I couldn't even taste the alcohol, and I never had more than one or two. Within a few weeks, I was getting blackout drunk—I couldn't tell you what went on after that, although I do remember waking up the next day with my skirt and pantyhose or tights torn and feeling sore down there..."

"Did you ever bleed?" John asks, looking up from his notes.

"Not unless it was that time of the month," I reply, meeting John's eyes. "I lost my virginity—for lack of a better word—when I was about six. My birth mother's boyfriend raped me, and I was stuck in that situation for almost a year until I was brought out of there. My maternal grandmother got custody of me, but she was murdered and my biological dad's dead, and after my biological mom lost her rights to me, Mom adopted me..."

"I'm caught up now," John tells me gently. "Go on."

"After the blackouts, which lasted for a good three or four months, I wanted something harder," I say, going into a fetal position—I begin shaking, feeling utterly and completely ashamed. "I started smoking..."

"Cigarettes?" John asks.

I sigh. "Yeah—for about a week or two. They didn't do anything for me, and Ryder told me to give it some time. By that time, I was desperate, and he gave me a joint and I never looked back." Tears filled my eyes, remembering what it was like, trying to get the edge off, but having to lie to my parents about it, all of it, everything. "It was about six weeks later that I'd graduated to cocaine—nothing's like snorting the stuff... Like some crushed up diamonds..."

"How long until you tried heroin?" John asks.

"About two months later," I replies.

"Did you remember to bring her journal?" John asks me.

I watch as my mother removes it from her briefcase and I gasp a little. "Trust me," she tells me as John takes it from her.

"Does this detail your drug use?"

"And sexual exploits," I confess, mortified.

John nods. "Good. We can enter it into evidence." He goes through it meticulously and manages to figure out the timeline for my drug use and sexual escapades. "And it says that about five months ago, you received an abortion from a free clinic?" he asks, no judgement in his tone.

My mother nearly squeaks in shock.

That had been six months after I'd been raped on the subway, and when we'd been on the cruise. How had I managed to do so without knowing the language, you ask? Well...

"Edythe..." My mother begins.

"Yes," I say, ignoring her outburst. "It was Ryder's baby..."

"Edythe!" my mother cries out, and I know full well that she is doing the math in her mind. "We were in Sweden..."

"English is a second language of Sweden," John says softly.

I turn her eyes to hers. "Du är inte den enda flerspråkiga i familjen, mamma," I say; I am telling her that I was not the only one in the family capable of speaking more than one language.

She nearly falls out of her chair at the sound of me speaking perfect Swedish. It dawned on her then that perhaps that Rosetta Stone program had not been a waste of money at all, but that was beside the point. I had had an abortion—an abortion! —at the age of only fourteen.

"And after the abortion?" John asks.

"I thought that since we were on the cruise, I could try to get clean," I say in a rush then. "I managed to stay sober and drug-free for weeks, because the lowest legal drinking age is sixteen and, let's face it, I couldn't pass for that old yet. Given the rate I'm going with the drinking and the drugging, if I can't stop, I'll be looking as old as I feel," I say softly, shaking my head. "After the cruise, I hooked up with Ryder again... He told me that he loved me, and I believed him. I remembered just losing control at school, and it got to the point where I was asking my teachers once every class to let me use the bathroom so I could shoot up or whatever suited my fancy that day in the girls' bathroom. Mostly heroin—that stuff doesn't really have a scent—or coke. Pot was too dangerous," I say with a little giggle then, and remember him talking about dangerous and save environments and stuff like that when it came to drug culture. "You gotta stick your head out the window, learned that the hard way, and got in big trouble..."

"I didn't know about this," my mother says.

I laugh then, and I realize that I still must have come of the cocaine in my system, which could be there for two to four days. "That's because Mr. Jameson caught me," I say. "You know, that seventeen-year-old child genius student teacher Mrs. Walsh has in her class... Caught me," I say, raising a fake gun to my head and pulling the trigger, "red-handed."

"Did you sleep with Mr. Jameson that day?" John Buchanan asks.

I nod. "That day and every day," I reply. "I call him Todd now—Toddy if he's being especially well-behaved..."

"Where do you two do it?" John asks.

My mother looks sick to her stomach, but I ignore her.

"The teacher's lounge," I reply effortlessly. "That was during the weekend and Todd would turn off the cameras," I say, shrugging a little. "But mostly we'd do it in his little office—I think it used to be a broom closet or something. He's so good, Mr. Buchanan," I tell him with a giggle. "So, so good..."

"All right," John says, not dwelling on it. "Keep going."

After another few minutes—and knowing far too much about my mother's reaction to my personal life—I watch as my mother digs into her briefcase for the new outfit she'd brought for me. She produced my school uniform and I was also permitted a shower, by my mother calling in a favor. After my shower, I allowed my mother to brush my hair out and braid it. I knew then that we were trying to get the sympathy vote, and I watch as she forces herself to tear myself away from me, and I wonder then about the love between mothers and daughters, and how deep it runs as I am permitted to wait with John until my hearing as my mother leaves us to step outside.

We are permitted inside the courtroom a few minutes later, and John whispers for me not to speak unless directly spoken to. He says that he and I can speak to one another, but only in a whisper. Unless, of course, I don't want to risk something being heard, I can slip him a note, for him to speak on me behalf. Turning, I notice my mother sitting with Olivia and Fin, and I force myself not to lash out at them—they were, after all, just doing their jobs.

The bailiff steps forward at the appointed time as the door to the judges' chambers opens. "They all rise for Judge Elizabeth Donnelly," he states.

"Judge Donnelly?!" I hear my mother squeak from behind me.

"Called in a favor," John Buchanan whispers from next to me.

"You call that a favor?" Fin says quietly. "She censured him last time around when we were all here..."

Judge Donnelly steps into the courtroom, her judge robes pristine as she steps into her place and moves her paperwork in front of her. "Be seated," she says softly, moving to do so herself. "I'll hear your thoughts on bail..."

Immediately, my hackles rise as the ADA decides to strut their stuff and paint an inaccurate picture of me. "Your Honor, Miss Grayson's parents are a captain in Internal Affairs and Captain Grayson of Manhattan Homicide, as well as her uncle being a decorated FBI agent, meaning that she could have ample opportunity to run," they say. "We request remand."

"Your Honor, my client is a minor—she's fifteen-years-old. We're not disputing the occupation of her parents, however the both of them are committed to the law and don't wish to see their daughter hurt. We request ROR on the condition that she pleads guilty to one count of possession and one count of the taking of the drugs themselves—one count per drug, meaning three counts. Miss Grayson will surrender her passport and remain in the custody of her mother and father, who are both prepared to take time off work."

"ROR does seem appropriate in this situation," Judge Donnelly says, turning to look at the ADA.

"ROR on the condition that the plea is entered now, and we can be done with all of this," the ADA states.

"Mr. Buchanan?" Judge Donnelly asks.

John whispers to me, and I nod and whisper back to him. "Your Honor, my client has asked permission to allocute."

"Granted," Judge Donnelly says.

I leave John Buchanan's side and move stand before the judge. "I didn't know for a long time what the definition of right or wrong was, Your Honor," I begin quietly. "It is said that we learn from our parents, and I was not originally blessed with Hunter and Maggie Grayson as my mother and father. I tried my best to deal with the hand dealt to me, and instead of protection, I was rewarded with selfishness, neglect, physical, and sexual abuse. The sexual abuse came from my mother's live-in boyfriend, and it all began just a few months after I turned six. It was an alcohol and drug-filled environment and I didn't know any better; even though I was adopted when I was very young, I still never fully healed from all the abuse—my mother's boyfriend had a gang of pedophiles who would all takes turns with me. I went to therapy, but stopped when I believed that the therapist was making inappropriate advances towards me. I became a sexualized being a few months after I turned thirteen, giving oral sex here and there to begin to get my fixes," I goes on, shivering ever so slightly. "By the time I turned fourteen, I was raped, and the hospital was shocked to discover that I'd been sexually active in the past, and I had to divulge to authority figures again. When Ryder Knox came into my life, I thought I had at last found someone who was hurting as much as I was. I ended up lying to my parents, telling them that another guy was my boyfriend, and that I had a circle of girlfriends as well. But whenever I'd leave the house to do homework or to have a sleepover, I'd go to Ryder's crack den in Harlem to get high and drunk. I was beaten and raped if the others I was trying to sell to would steal my merchandise, or to those who wouldn't pay for having sex with me. I thought it was all right, what I was doing, because I was so consumed with it that I lost touch—I lost who I truly was." I sighed a little and I felt my shoulders shaking as I cried. "Just after one night in jail, I know I don't want to go back there, but I know I have to pay for what I've done. I know I should be punished, so please, just be quick about it. I'm guilty; I'm an alcoholic and a drug addict, and I know that I should be punished accordingly. I am so sorry to the people I've hurt..." I turn around then. "Mom, I'm so, so sorry—I love you... And I'm sorry for the laws I've broken," I go on, turning back to Judge Donnelly. "Thank you, Your Honor," I say before returning to my place beside John Buchanan.

Judge Donnelly sighs, and I can see she's quite moved by my performance. I watch as she looks over the paperwork in front of her, and I wonder if one of them is a form of permission slip for my mother to sign me away to a juvenile facility. She shuts the folder then, looking out at me and biting her lip. "You know, normally I need to return to chambers, but not this time. Edythe Grayson, please stand." She waits for me to stand. "You have pled guilty to your crimes, and obviously are ready to receive help. There's a treatment facility in New Haven, Connecticut that I think would be of help to you. It's a six-month treatment program, so you would have to do your schooling online, and they would help you set that up. When you return after treatment, you'll be on house arrest for the rest of the summer as a part of your treatment program. While you're in the treatment program, you will not have access to a computer—apart from your schooling—or a phone, apart from contacting your mother and father. If you don't break any laws between now and your eighteenth birthday, your records will be sealed and wiped clean. Is that understood, Miss Grayson?"

"Yes, Your Honor," I reply.

"Good. I'll call the treatment facility and make the arrangements. Families are permitted to visit every other weekend, pending good behavior," Judge Donnelly addresses my mother. "Will this be an issue for you?"

My mother gets to her feet. "No, Your Honor—and neither is it a financial one. My husband and I would do anything for Edythe to be well again."

Judge Donnelly nods, and she turns back to me; she is firm but fair, I can see that now. "One other thing as a condition for your probation, Miss Grayson, is that you must attend weekly teenage AA meetings and substance abuse meetings until your eighteenth birthday. When your records are sealed and wiped, you will be able to decide otherwise. I will also recommend for some therapists for you to see, and you two can decide accordingly," she states, bringing me back into the decision-making. "Understood?"

"Yes, Your Honor," my mother and I say together.

"Good. Case dismissed," Judge Donnelly says, slamming her gavel down and going back into her chambers.

I immediately fly through the divider separating my mother and I and throw myself into her arms. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I crow.

She smiles, kissing her temple. "You really should be thanking John Buchanan," she tells me quickly. "He's the one who did all this."

"All part of my job," John says, chuckling. He places his hand upon my shoulder and squeezes it. "I never want to see you again under these circumstances, young lady—is that understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Buchanan," I says quickly.

He nods. "Good. Maggie," he says, nodding.

"John, wait," she says, quickly getting out her checkbook, scrawling a series of numbers into the correct box, and I wonder then if she is doubling his fee—which would be most appropriate at this point. "Take the wife out, and get your kids something nice," she says, handing it over to him.

John's eyes fill with tears as he sees the amount. "Thank you, Maggie," he says with a little sigh. "You're a good woman Maggie—remember that well, now, Edythe," John says with a look of mock-severity before going out of the courtroom doors.

After a few weeks of living in New Haven, I found that I loved it—not only was I in a group home full of other girls with similar issues, but the group therapy was proving beneficial. Every week, we were marked according to our behavior, our completion of chores, and obligations to the terms of our probation. I was given high marks in everything; I truly wanted to make this work, and, as the weeks went by, I didn't lose any privileges afforded to us within the rehab facility.

In group therapy, there was one girl nicknamed Pepper; she had long, curly red hair and bright green eyes; she was in there because she'd attempted suicide several times. She always wore long sleeves and baggy clothes, because she was anorexic and weighed less than a hundred and ten pounds; the long sleeves and pants mainly served to cover up the razor and knife wounds she'd used to cut her skin, to show herself how disgusting she perceived herself to truly be. Pepper had the room next to mine, and we would talk late into the night through the heating vents upon the floor underneath our beds.

One early morning, I was woken up by one of the staff members. One of the conditions of good behavior is that you're allowed to sleep an hour later when the girls who have misbehaved have to get up an hour earlier to help with breakfast. I am only about half-way into my extra hour when the rude awakening comes, and I shuffle down the stairs; it is a large group home, so large, in fact, that we don't have roommates, unless you've been punished, and then you're forced to share a room with the person accused of the same crime.

Getting up, I pull on a pair of sweat pants, leaving on my tank top and yanking a sweatshirt over my head. Putting on my slippers, I quickly tug my hair into a ponytail and make my way downstairs. Along the walls are various pictures of girls who have kept in touch over the years, and I find myself wondering if I, too will be a success story from this program.

"Hi, Mom," I call out.

She turns to look at me and smiles; her eyes are red, so I automatically wonder if it is because she missed me so much. "Hi, sweetheart. I'm sorry—did I wake you up?"

I shrug. "Eh, it's fine. Great to see you." I step forward and accept her hug. "Is something wrong? You're here so early, and it's not family day..."

She pulls back and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. "Let's go talk in the living room, okay?"

I nod, accepting her arm around my shoulders and leading her into the main living room off the entryway. She and I sit upon the striped couch along the back wall, and I notice that she waits for the door to be shut completely by the same staff member who collected me from my bedroom before she begins speaking. I find that my mother is gripping my hands tightly, almost as if she is fearful of my reaction to something unknown.

"Sweetheart, you know the reason that your father hasn't been able to come and visit with me these past several weeks, right?"

I nod. "Yeah, Mom. He's on assignment for the FBI with Uncle Mason," I reply matter-of-factly.

She shakes my head. "No. No, he's not. Uncle Mason is still on assignment, but your father got back last night."

I blink. "Where is he, then?" I ask, looking around her, as if a small child might do when given the promise of a present.

She bites her lip, hesitating briefly before forcing herself to speak. "Edythe, I'm so sorry. I got a call before midnight last night saying that there'd been an accident while he was on assignment. He was shot, honey, in the spine, and he had some internal bleeding..." I am silent, so she continues, "They couldn't remove the bullet—they put him into a medically-induced coma—because he began to hemorrhage severely. Because of this, he had a heart attack and he passed away on the operating table." I feel my eyes fill with tears—Daddy? Dead? No... "Daddy's dead, Mom?" I ask then, and I remembered that man from so long ago, in the park with her, before they'd married, and how absolutely wonderful I believed he was.

"Yes, sweetheart," she replies, her eyes filling with tears again. "Yes. Yes, he's dead. I'm so sorry."

I let out a sob then, and lean forward and putting my arms around her. I can't let her go; she is the only parent I have left! I am shaking, as I did on that day in court, as I did when my first high went badly, as I did the first time Jake raped me. I find I cannot let her go, not anymore.

I held my mother and we cried together; I realized then that I didn't want to ever feel this feeling ever again. I didn't want to lose anyone ever again. After about twenty minutes of this, she quickly manages to get the woman in charge of the house to sign my release papers, and I is permitted to pack her things. She tells me that she will be waiting outside, as she needed to get some air.

I walked up the stairs in silence, before walking into my bedroom, the door still open. I shut it behind me, and set about gathering my things for the journey home that early, cloudy morning. Wandering over towards the window, I spot my mother taking her phone out of her pocket, and immediately answering the call. It probably had to do with something about my father—an insurance pay-out, or funeral arrangements—and I shake my head, continuing to pack my things in my monogramed duffel, an envy of a select few girls in the house.

Finally, after I've finished, I really consider my father's death for the first time—no more calling my daddy and having him lift me triumphantly into his arms, even though I was too old for that now. No more backyard picnics; no more swimming championships; no more trampoline competitions; no more anything. Then, I slide to the floor, and stick a fist into my mouth to stop the sobs from becoming far too loud for any of the rehab facility to handle.