Sydney herself is not capable of torture. The act of forcing prolonged inhuman pain on a person. Physically and consciously she is not capable. Mentally though. I have no doubt that Sydney could torture with the best of them. Manipulate if she had to. I don't know if she would like it. This thought is one that plagues the corners of my mind with indecision and doubt. I hope to God she would not like it. But almost surely, in some instances, I believe that she couldn't help herself. I am tortured by Sydney's past and present. By the events that have shaped them both. I must be a hypocrite of magnificent proportions. I think of the way I guarded her, like a fierce hawk. What right did I have to do so? Well, every right. I had a mother's right. It was not by my choice that I forfeit this right. In actuality, I never did. Though perhaps if I had I would not have had such the hold on Sydney that I did . Or do. For it is not only in the past but in the present that something about me holds her captive.But it is the same for me. Powerfully and irresistably I am drawn to her. When Sydney began to toddle around our house, wobbling on her uncertain legs, I began to see every step, corner, table edge, and incline as my enemy. A strange enemy. I put child gates on every door and locks on all the cabinets. I picked her foods with such care. It is almost ridiculous to think that so many of the crimes I have commited against her, I still feel so guilty for forcing her to eat broccolli. Her little lips would close determinedly as if they were cemented. Her father and I would coax her and berate her until we finally gave up. My little girl was so brave even then. She stood up to older children and "rescued" people all the time. If someone so much as gave me a backward glance Sydney would stare them down until I finally had to pick her up and carry her away. I would hold her hand at the doctor as the needle would prick her skin. Watching, transfixed as I saw it plunge into her vein. Pulsing with the blood that made her mine. Now I see the way the veins stood out against her pale skin and I think of times she has received "alternate medication" in her adult life. I was tortured many times, but none of that pain comes close to that which I suffer from knowing that those pains have been inflicted on my daughter. I can hardly entertain the thought of how many times she has been brutalized. I saw her scars in Taipei while she rested unconscious in that cold chair. One of my doctors looked into her mouth and relayed to me that she had endured rather unprofessional dental work at least twice. If Sydney has not killed the bastard already I'll do it myself. I think of my daughter often. I have nothing but the time to do so. Time is after all the great leveler. It is a worthy adversary but everyone learns that time cannot be fought. And it most certainly cannot be waited out. Things can get better with time. Remedy themselves. Or get worse. That is why the mind remembers. It is why we replay pivotal images in our lives. Many that will haunt us until the day that we die. When time will stand triumphant over us. The defeated ones.