A/N. I can't help but be cocky right now. I love this fic so much. Well, maybe not so much, but a whole hell of a lot. This was inspired by some random line from Uncivilized, a line that was completely irrelevant, but got me thinking. Thanks to LS Munch for beta-ing (is that even a word?) for me, and to the Munchkins back at the forums!
Disclaimer: Munch & Co. belong to Dick Wolf, NBC, and the Powers That Be. I don't own him. But you never know, Christmas is just around the corner.
She was such a sad little thing.
And cowering on a plastic hospital chair, she looked it even more so. My heart went out to her, really, it did. She was so quiet, I thought from behind the Nurses' Station. So quiet.
"Hi," I said, taking a seat beside her. I gestured to the uniform nearby to leave and he wordlessly did so. She didn't notice: her eyes were fixed on something in her hand. "I'm Detective Munch." I looked down into her lap. Christ. It was a rosary, worn and grubby from use. "What's your name?" I continued after a moment. Her reply was a soft whisper.
"Isabella."
"Isabella? That's a pretty name." She shrugged slight shoulders. I offered her the blanket that I had gotten from one of the hospital staff. She accepted it with a murmured word of thanks and wrapped it around herself.
"Isabella, can you tell me what happened tonight?"
The little girl bent her head lower. She shook her head, her curtain of dark hair obscuring the small face. "I'm not supposed to talk about… anyone," she said, catching herself from saying the name of her sister's attacker at the last moment.
"Who told you that?" I asked while passing her a Styrofoam cup of water.
"Mamá. She said that if you don't have anything nice to say, you shouldn't say anything at all."
"That's true, Isabella. But we're talking to help your sister. This time I think that it would be okay."
She nodded hesitantly, fiddling once again with the rosary.
"Do you know how María got hurt?" Her sister had been beaten and raped. The twelve year old had suffered a harsh subdural hematoma and a fractured skull as well as various other injuries all over her body. I suspected long-term abuse, as did the hospital staff: the healed rib fractures and the non-cooperative attitude that she had shown for the short while that she had been conscious were hallmark signs of domestic violence. My money was on the father. Isabella's careless mention of her mother had confirmed for me that she wasn't the one harming her daughter, although the seven yearn old had been the one to bring her sister in, via the subway, no less. But that didn't mean that she wasn't afraid.
"She fell down the stairs," Isabella muttered.
"See, Isabella, the hurts that your sister has couldn't've been made by a fall." I saw her eyes flick back and forth frantically. "We know that a person hurt María. If you tell us who it was, I can make sure he never hurts her again. I can keep you safe."
She opened and closed her mouth a few times before a whispered word escaped her lips. "Papá."
She looked at me. I nodded for her to continue. Her voice was quiet, as if she was afraid that if she spoke too loudly he'd hear her.
"He came home angry. He does hat a lot these days," she explained. "He… he smelled like beer. He caught María looking at a picture of José. He's this boy that she likes. She calls him 'Azúcar de Marrón'. Brown Sugar," she clarified. A small smile flit across her face before it was replaced by shadows once more.
"But Papá… he yelled at her. He said terrible things, terrible things… he said that she was una puta. A prostitute." Her eyes misted before she continued, a tremor in her voice. "He hit her. He hit her so many times. She was lying there, bleeding. And he took off her pants, and his. And the whole time he was doing… It… he kept telling her that she deserved it. That that was what happened to whores."
Tears rolled across the smooth brown skin of her cheeks, wetting the hair that hung around her face. "She was screaming and crying, but he wouldn't stop. And when he was done, he stood up, and María was just lying there. But then…"
For the first time in her story, she stopped, shaking her head with tightly closed eyes.
"Isabella?" I asked, touching her shoulder lightly. She flinched away from my touch and shuddered.
"No, no, no, no…" she said softly, covering her face with tiny hands. The tears were coming faster now, accompanied by wet snuffling sounds.
"Isabella, look at me." When she didn't obey, I added, "Please."
She opened her fingers enough to let her big brown eyes show. "You can tell me. It's okay. He can't hurt you anymore."
She let her hands wander up her face to cup her cheek bones and temples. She spoke so softly that I had to strain to hear her. "He did it to me, too."
I nodded. "Then what?" I prodded gently.
"He passed out, I think. I waited a few minutes to make sure, then took María down to the subway." She wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Will María be okay?"
"It'll take her a while to heal, but she'll be fine. They'll go and get your father soon."
I crouched in front of her. "You were a very brave girl, Isabella. If you hadn't brought your sister to the hospital, she could've died."
Tears welled up in Isabella's eyes.
"Hey, hey, it's alright now. You're safe. Everything's okay, don't worry."
She flung herself off of the chair and into my body. Wrapping her arms around me, she sobbed into my shoulder. I stroked her dark hair tentatively. I could hear her speaking against my neck.
"I was so scared, Mr. Munch… so scared. I'm still scared. It hurts so much…" She choked on the last sentence, burying her head in the crook of my shoulder. She cried wordlessly for what seemed like forever until the tears began to slow. I felt her mumble a question into my jacket.
"Where was she when I needed her?"
"Where was who?"
"Mí ángel de la guarda." I saw her finger the rosary again. For the first time I noticed that she had added a little metal coin to the bottom of the string of beads. I could make out the image of a boy and a girl walking over a bridge. Behind them an angel floated, looking serene. She had a hand on each child's head, and she gazed down at them with a small smile. A star floated above her masses of curls, lighting the children's path.
I think that my heart just about broke. Ángel de la guarda. Guardian angel.
I could think of nothing to say. I tightened my arms around the small, fragile body, feeling the little heart flutter against mine. I stroked her head when she broke into tears again, crooning soothing things into her ears. "Shh, shh, it's okay now, don't cry, don't worry, you're safe…"
The trembling child took a few deep but shaky breaths. Each one was less tearful than the last until she stood before me, sniffling. I fished a handkerchief out of my pocket. Setting it firmly over her nose, I commanded, "Blow." She blew obediently into the square of cloth. I wiped her cheeks with the corners. "Good girl."
Six Months Later
John sat stoically at the East Harlem Community Park. He let the steady hum of insects permeate his skull, paired with the happy squeals of children. There wasn't much of a breeze; the day was muggy and hot, typical New York City weather. But in his place in the shade, out of the bright sunshine, he felt a strange detachment from the heat.
Her case had stayed with him. He hadn't even realized it until a few weeks ago. He had been rummaging through his desk drawers when he had come across a small scrap of material. He rubbed the cloth between his fingers. Oh, it had long since been washed, but it brought his mind back, once again, to Isabella.
I've been thinking about her a lot lately, he mused, pulling out the faded red cloth.
But he realized that she had never really left him. She had been there, curled in the shadowy recesses of his mind.
Looking out now, he saw the little girl standing at the chain link fence, gazing solemnly at the children playing on the other side.
It happened to all children. Eventually they grew out of the monkey bars and climbing structure. But it was much more than that. The untainted resided there. At a certain point, children leave the playground, a place where the wildest of dreams were unquestioningly possible, and the only worries that a little one possessed were whether or not the kid from down the block could fly higher off of the swing set.
Isabella had been forced out prematurely by the horrific crimes that she had witnessed and endured. Though there was nothing physically keeping her out, she could sense the finality of this last peek at her childhood as much as the detective could. She no longer belonged there. This place was for the untouched, the pure, the chaste. It was for the innocent.
And she was no longer one of them. She knew in her heart the truths of the world, and she could never go back, could never block out the memories and forget.
Her friends called to her from the playground. Come, they said. Come play with us.
No, Isabella shook her head, I cannot.
It was time for her to leave this place, unspoiled by the evils of the world.
She turned away, heading for the apartment where she lived now. He saw her glance back over her shoulder just one last time. Her chocolate eyes were full of sadness and longing. A silent tear rolled down her brown cheek. She turned away and continued on. She didn't look back again.
In my heart, I cried for her. I cried for the little girl that she once was and the little girl that we would never be. I cried for her childhood, stolen from her. I cried for her naïveté, taken too soon. Far too soon.
She was supposed to be unsullied. She was supposed to be sacred.
She was supposed to be innocent.