Broken words coming from broken people. This job was a revolving door of pain, the circle of life with a little more violence and a little less life. It ate her from the inside out, her past becoming her future, her life: constant reparation for a crime she had not committed. It was the look in her mother's eyes, the scars on her hands, the tear on her cheek. All of this was her, every negative facial feature she had maintained, had enforced, long after he had left her broken and bruised in that dark alleyway. The guilty always look innocent, and she, with her scrawny legs and big, mahogany eyes was no exception.
And this is why she's afraid of motherhood. They always said we turn into our parents, but she's been spinning round and round, because she doesn't want to turn, doesn't want to turn into them, two people connected by a mutual lack of control, a separate method for attempting to get it back.
Elliot once told her she was out of control, but he had no idea just how hard he had hit the nail on the head. It wasn't just one dead guy, or one forgotten back up call. It was her life, it was her mind, and now it has become something completely different. It has become different to the point that maybe she has gained control, because she has to, because someone else finally needs her. More than for just a year, a month, but perhaps for a lifetime.