"What do you think you're going to find out about me?" Singer glared, "What
do you want to find out about me? I thought you all hated me, so why do you
care about my past?"
"What don't you want me to find out?" Mac countered, beginning to feel frustrated.
"I just don't know what you think this is gonna prove."
"Human beings just aren't as cold as you without reason."
"Fine. Who's going first?"
Mac tossed Singer one of the folders, "You can read mine."
Singer regarded her cautiously, then agreed. She skipped the first section, which was personal details and started reading personal history.
"Your parents were separated, you lived with your father but you repeatedly ran away from home and stayed with friends and at a youth shelter. Several times you were admitted to hospital because of excessive alcohol consumption and twice because you tried to kill yourself" Singer looked up, "And you were an alcoholic."
They sat in silence for several minutes, Mac unsure of how to reply. The woman had made it sound so depressing.
Singer studied the Marine sitting opposite her, "I never would've thought." she began.
"No, not a lot of people would," Mac interrupted, "Most people I meet think I must've lived a fairy tale. They think my worst problem as a teenager was probably not having a date to a high school dance or something."
Singer scrutinised the carpet at her feet sheepishly, "I guess I thought that too."
"Why do people think that?" Mac asked, glaring at the scars on her wrists angrily.
"Because, look at you. You've, I don't know, you're beautiful and successful and you don't look like someone who's been through hell."
"What makes you think you do?"
"The scars," Singer replied, taking of her watch and displaying the chain of beadlike scars encircling her wrist.
"I wanted a bracelet for my 12th birthday," she explained, "It's sought of like a tradition in our family. my mother and her sister got matching bracelets on their 12th birthday from my grandmother. My cousin, who's the same age as me, got one on her birthday a few weeks before. But my mother forgot," she paused, "And I got angry so I decided to burn myself a bracelet. The only problem was you couldn't take it off."
Mac nodded in acknowledgment, "I had a friend who used to mutilate herself when she got angry or upset. I never did it, I used to go out and drink until I didn't know who I was, or wreck things. Once I broke my mother's diamond necklace after she yelled at me. This other time I threw the crystal bowl they got as a wedding present through the window," she paused, "It all seems very immature now."
"I know," Singer agreed, putting her watch back on over the scars, "Are you going to read mine now?"
"If you want me to."
"I think its Ok."
"Alright then." Mac read studiously for several minutes before Singer interrupted, "You know, why don't I just tell you? There's heaps of stuff left out there any way."
"Ok."
"I grew up in this small town on the coast of North Carolina. My father was a fisherman, there's not a day I remember as a young girl when dad wasn't fishing. My mother used to say she didn't see the ocean until she was 12 years old and I could never imagine not having seen the sea, or boats except in pictures. I pretty much grew up on his boat. That was before the accident. We used to get some terrible storms in the winter and one year, dad was moving the boat into a more sheltered spot and it smashed up against the breakwater in the bay. The petrol tank exploded I think, because he had second degree burns and lost the sight of one eye. After that, he didn't have his boat and he couldn't get a license to operate a new one because of his vision."
Singer stopped suddenly, "Am I boring you?"
"No, keep going."
"This is where it gets difficult, maybe you should read the rest. But no, because this isn't in the file. Ok, without his boat, dad was miserable. He had nothing to do, and was constantly bored. He'd always been a bit odd, I remember, even as a little girl I was sometimes afraid of him. But after the accident, things were much worse. He became violent and was always feeling sorry for himself. Looking back on it, I think he must've been mentally unstable, and the accident just sought of pushed him of the edge. A few months after, my mother filed for a divorce. Dad moved out, but was granted joint custody, so I had to go and visit him every weekend."
Singer stopped again, "I can't tell you the rest. It's just, I just can't." she trailed off, her head sinking into her hands, shaking slightly.
"What happened?" Mac questioned gently.
"I already told you I can't tell you," Singer sobbed irritably, "It's too difficult and."
"Did your father hurt you?"
"Just a little," she murmured, inhaling deeply and looking up once again, "My father used to. he. he was a paedophile."
Mac seemed lost in her own thoughts for a moment, before replying, "How old where you?"
"I was ten when it started. My mother moved interstate to marry my step- father when I was 16, so I didn't see dad very often after that. But 6 years, 6 years of, of."
"Hell," Mac supplied.
"Yeah."
"I was 18, so it was bit different. He did it once, I left after that. I've never spoken to him again. he died a few years back now."
"I haven't spoken to my father, or my mother, since I was 16. I stopped talking before we moved to Philadelphia. After that I was in and out of hospitals and clinics with depression and drug induced hallucinations. I started talking again in the clinics, but refused to speak to either of my parents. I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Pennsylvania, but I was released 3 months after my 18th birthday. I continued with the drugs for a bit. I had this boyfriend who was in with that scene. After he broke up with me, I went into rehab therapy and just sought of stopped. But I was depressed, and I tried to kill myself twice. I was admitted to hospital twice as well for excessive blood loss and burns, but that was just self mutilation. I never intended to actually kill myself those times. I was 24 when I joined the Navy. I needed a job and I had no money to go to university. I figured it wouldn't be that bad, because I loved boats and the ocean. Becoming a lawyer sought of just happened, and that's how I ended up here, in Washington DC, telling you about all of this for some unknown reason."
"Are your parents still alive?"
"I don't know and I don't care."
"I felt that way. I didn't want to face them, it was too hard, too painful, too scary. But when my father died, I wished I had the chance to apologise, to tell him something, anything. Just so the last thing I ever said to him wasn't you bastard, you sick bastard."
"You feel guilty?"
"A little. He was drunk, he had no idea what he was doing half the time. My mother however, who left when I was 15. she had no excuse for what she did to me. But I still wish the last thing I screamed at her was I hate you."
"I can't remember what the last thing I said to my parents was. Silence was far more effective any way. I remember the last time I saw my mother. She was in the hospital corridor, so I turned and left the back way. My father, I've tried to forget about him. It's just too confusing. Every weekend for 6 years I went to his dingy little house by the bay, I used to call it the house of horrors. Because for me, it was."
"And it's confusing because you love him?"
"No, yes. I'm not really sure."
The two women sat remembering in silence. After several minutes, Singer spoke.
"So what did that prove?" she asked quietly, placing both files on the ground at her feet.
"That you're not the only one, Loren."
* * * * * *
"What don't you want me to find out?" Mac countered, beginning to feel frustrated.
"I just don't know what you think this is gonna prove."
"Human beings just aren't as cold as you without reason."
"Fine. Who's going first?"
Mac tossed Singer one of the folders, "You can read mine."
Singer regarded her cautiously, then agreed. She skipped the first section, which was personal details and started reading personal history.
"Your parents were separated, you lived with your father but you repeatedly ran away from home and stayed with friends and at a youth shelter. Several times you were admitted to hospital because of excessive alcohol consumption and twice because you tried to kill yourself" Singer looked up, "And you were an alcoholic."
They sat in silence for several minutes, Mac unsure of how to reply. The woman had made it sound so depressing.
Singer studied the Marine sitting opposite her, "I never would've thought." she began.
"No, not a lot of people would," Mac interrupted, "Most people I meet think I must've lived a fairy tale. They think my worst problem as a teenager was probably not having a date to a high school dance or something."
Singer scrutinised the carpet at her feet sheepishly, "I guess I thought that too."
"Why do people think that?" Mac asked, glaring at the scars on her wrists angrily.
"Because, look at you. You've, I don't know, you're beautiful and successful and you don't look like someone who's been through hell."
"What makes you think you do?"
"The scars," Singer replied, taking of her watch and displaying the chain of beadlike scars encircling her wrist.
"I wanted a bracelet for my 12th birthday," she explained, "It's sought of like a tradition in our family. my mother and her sister got matching bracelets on their 12th birthday from my grandmother. My cousin, who's the same age as me, got one on her birthday a few weeks before. But my mother forgot," she paused, "And I got angry so I decided to burn myself a bracelet. The only problem was you couldn't take it off."
Mac nodded in acknowledgment, "I had a friend who used to mutilate herself when she got angry or upset. I never did it, I used to go out and drink until I didn't know who I was, or wreck things. Once I broke my mother's diamond necklace after she yelled at me. This other time I threw the crystal bowl they got as a wedding present through the window," she paused, "It all seems very immature now."
"I know," Singer agreed, putting her watch back on over the scars, "Are you going to read mine now?"
"If you want me to."
"I think its Ok."
"Alright then." Mac read studiously for several minutes before Singer interrupted, "You know, why don't I just tell you? There's heaps of stuff left out there any way."
"Ok."
"I grew up in this small town on the coast of North Carolina. My father was a fisherman, there's not a day I remember as a young girl when dad wasn't fishing. My mother used to say she didn't see the ocean until she was 12 years old and I could never imagine not having seen the sea, or boats except in pictures. I pretty much grew up on his boat. That was before the accident. We used to get some terrible storms in the winter and one year, dad was moving the boat into a more sheltered spot and it smashed up against the breakwater in the bay. The petrol tank exploded I think, because he had second degree burns and lost the sight of one eye. After that, he didn't have his boat and he couldn't get a license to operate a new one because of his vision."
Singer stopped suddenly, "Am I boring you?"
"No, keep going."
"This is where it gets difficult, maybe you should read the rest. But no, because this isn't in the file. Ok, without his boat, dad was miserable. He had nothing to do, and was constantly bored. He'd always been a bit odd, I remember, even as a little girl I was sometimes afraid of him. But after the accident, things were much worse. He became violent and was always feeling sorry for himself. Looking back on it, I think he must've been mentally unstable, and the accident just sought of pushed him of the edge. A few months after, my mother filed for a divorce. Dad moved out, but was granted joint custody, so I had to go and visit him every weekend."
Singer stopped again, "I can't tell you the rest. It's just, I just can't." she trailed off, her head sinking into her hands, shaking slightly.
"What happened?" Mac questioned gently.
"I already told you I can't tell you," Singer sobbed irritably, "It's too difficult and."
"Did your father hurt you?"
"Just a little," she murmured, inhaling deeply and looking up once again, "My father used to. he. he was a paedophile."
Mac seemed lost in her own thoughts for a moment, before replying, "How old where you?"
"I was ten when it started. My mother moved interstate to marry my step- father when I was 16, so I didn't see dad very often after that. But 6 years, 6 years of, of."
"Hell," Mac supplied.
"Yeah."
"I was 18, so it was bit different. He did it once, I left after that. I've never spoken to him again. he died a few years back now."
"I haven't spoken to my father, or my mother, since I was 16. I stopped talking before we moved to Philadelphia. After that I was in and out of hospitals and clinics with depression and drug induced hallucinations. I started talking again in the clinics, but refused to speak to either of my parents. I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Pennsylvania, but I was released 3 months after my 18th birthday. I continued with the drugs for a bit. I had this boyfriend who was in with that scene. After he broke up with me, I went into rehab therapy and just sought of stopped. But I was depressed, and I tried to kill myself twice. I was admitted to hospital twice as well for excessive blood loss and burns, but that was just self mutilation. I never intended to actually kill myself those times. I was 24 when I joined the Navy. I needed a job and I had no money to go to university. I figured it wouldn't be that bad, because I loved boats and the ocean. Becoming a lawyer sought of just happened, and that's how I ended up here, in Washington DC, telling you about all of this for some unknown reason."
"Are your parents still alive?"
"I don't know and I don't care."
"I felt that way. I didn't want to face them, it was too hard, too painful, too scary. But when my father died, I wished I had the chance to apologise, to tell him something, anything. Just so the last thing I ever said to him wasn't you bastard, you sick bastard."
"You feel guilty?"
"A little. He was drunk, he had no idea what he was doing half the time. My mother however, who left when I was 15. she had no excuse for what she did to me. But I still wish the last thing I screamed at her was I hate you."
"I can't remember what the last thing I said to my parents was. Silence was far more effective any way. I remember the last time I saw my mother. She was in the hospital corridor, so I turned and left the back way. My father, I've tried to forget about him. It's just too confusing. Every weekend for 6 years I went to his dingy little house by the bay, I used to call it the house of horrors. Because for me, it was."
"And it's confusing because you love him?"
"No, yes. I'm not really sure."
The two women sat remembering in silence. After several minutes, Singer spoke.
"So what did that prove?" she asked quietly, placing both files on the ground at her feet.
"That you're not the only one, Loren."
* * * * * *