Detective Flack took me to his precinct and waited with me to an interrogation room. I sat quietly and played on my phone, yes I have a phone. Contrary to popular belief, you can be homeless and still have nice things.

Well, my phone is really the only nice thing I have, but that's beside the point. You'd be surprised how much money you make playing guitar, and truth, sometimes I sell dope on the side, but that's not something Detective Flack needs to be aware of.

My phone isn't a name brand smart phone, but a smart phone none the less. I buy prepaid cards at the store for service.

And I'm not a 'lazy' homeless person. It's quite difficult to get a real job while homeless. They require an address I don't have, a social security number I don't know, and for me to be somewhat presentable.

I shake my head at the thought of ignorant people and look up to the black window. I haven't really looked my reflection, like really looked at it. Damn, I didn't realize how awful I looked. My cheeks are hollow, or maybe it's just the reflection, I'm not really sure. There are bags under my eyes, considering I haven't had a good night's sleep since a few weeks back at the shelter. I'm pale as hell, almost ghostly, but again it could be the reflection, I'm not sure. But what I am sure of is that my braids need to be redone at some point or another. I'm sure I need a shower as well, but even before I was homeless that wasn't exactly something I enjoyed. Bad things happened in there as a kid, and being naked makes me feel vulnerable.

I moved my attention when the door opened. A man walked in with a kit and a soft smile.

"Flack," he said smiling to Detective Flack.

"JJ this is Sheldon Hawkes, he's a CSI. Formly a doctor and used to be a medical examiner."

"Yea, but I wanted to be in the field," he said with a grin.

I smiled back at him. He sat on the table with his legs hanging to the side and his kit beside him while I sat in a chair.

"So what's exactly happening?" Doctor Hawkes asked.

"She's the only survivor from the train massacre. She was cleared physically by EMS but they insisted taking her to the hospital for a psych eval. I figured it'd be better for you to check her out rather than someone at Trinity."

Hawkes looked to Flack, "does Mac know?"

Flack smiled, "Sheldon, of course not."

Hawkes cocked an eyebrow then looked to me. "So JJ, wanna tell me what happened?"

"Um... I was on the train during the shooting."

Hawkes turned his attention back to Flack, "there's more going on here isn't there?"

Detective Flack sighed, "she has some mental health issues. Cutting."
Doctor Hawkes looked back to me, "mind if I see?"

I thought for a moment, questioning whether or not I could trust him, but Detective Flack gave me an encouraging nod so I rolled up my sleeves. Doctor Hawkes was not shocked, he didn't flinch or make a disgusted face, but instead lightly ran his thumb over the scars. They ran in all directions up and down both arms to my elbows and back. I've had people ask if i was mauled by an animal, or if my arms had gotten stuck in a propeller of some sort.

I can't really blame them for having such abstract explanations. Mutilating yourself isn't exactly what most people think of. Or maybe it is but it's not something they feel comfortable contemplating or acknowledging.

Either way, Doctor Hawkes did not look at me with shame or disgust, but instead offered me eyes filled with both sympathy and comfort.

He offered a warm smile, "when did this start?"

I shrugged, "when I was 9."

Sometimes I forget how nonchalantly I refer to things like cutting and suicide. I don't even realize it until I notice someone being caught off guard.

But again, Doctor Hawkes did not flinch or seem angry or anything like that.

"What do you use?"

"Straight razor."

Hawkes sighed, "you're lucky none of these are infected."

Again I shrugged, pretty apathetic. It's not like I don't clean them, I do, but I wouldn't really care if they got infected. Same with today on the train, it's not like I didn't try to protect myself, I did, but I really wouldn't have cared that much if I had been killed.

I guess death has always been such an odd concept.

Doctor Hawkes moved to examine my small frame, contemplating whether I'm truly sane enough to be outside of a padded room.

After a moment he spoke, "do you have anywhere to stay?"

I cocked an eyebrow, "define stay."

Before Hawkes had a chance to speak Detective Flack interrupted him, "I'll take care of it."

And before I even had a chance to argue, Detective Flack interrupted me, "not up for negotiation."

Hawkes smiled, "alright, well, Flack make sure she gets a good meal tonight and going forward," he turned to look to me, "I don't need a scale nor to take your blood to know that you're both underweight and malnourished."

I took a deep breath and nodded, understanding his point of view. I doubt he knows I feel more powerful and strong when I go to bed hungry, but that's a different issue for a different day.

Hawkes turned back to Flack, "I wanna see her again next week."

Detective Flack smiled, "no problem."

It was silent for a moment, but someone had to ask the million dollar question, "um where exactly am I going?" My voice came out far quieter than I intended it too.

"I got a good friend that owes me a favor. He'll take good care of you."

I looked at him questioningly, but for some reason something inside me is telling me I can trust him. That little voice may also be fueled by the desire of a good night's sleep, but that's beside the point.

Hawkes stood up, grabbed his kit, and turned to me then Flack, "I'll see her next week."

Hawkes offered me yet another smile before leaving the room.

"A friend of mine, Terrance, he owes me and he'll take good care of you."

I smiled, "thank you, you really don't have to."

Flack put his hand up, "no, you just survived a mass shooting, it's the least I can do. He stays over in the Bronx. I've already called him, so you don't need to worry."

I smiled, feeling pretty guilty about the whole situation. I really don't want to be a bother and I don't want to force anyone to babysit me. I'm grown, I've been grown for the past 9 years, I can fend for myself. The last thing I want to be is a nuisance.

Its as if Detective Flack read my mind, "whatever you're thinking. Stop, it's okay, let someone take care of you for once."

I had no room to argue with Detective Flack. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate everything he is doing, I just can't help but feel guilty. I don't deserve this.

But I went ahead and smiled at Detective Flack, hoping he understands how grateful I am.

He's the first person in my entire life to actually care, to actually do something to help me. And I get this vibe that he's not doing this because he feels sorry for me, but because for some reason, he genuinely cares.

This is a very new concept that I find difficult to wrap my brain around, which is probably why I've stayed silent, because I really don't know what to say.