Title Victim
Author Bast
SVU
I leave my mother reluctantly and walk with the detectives through the yard. They are quiet, thoughtful. I know what they are thinking, and I know what they want, but i will not help them.
We pause by the tether ball set. I hit the ball--hard. It strains at its mooring, then returns to me. I draw back to slam it again, and the woman touches my arm. "If you can remember anything, no matter how small, it will help us to help other girls." I look up at her, expecting the anxiousness I've seen in others when they question me. Instead her eyes are sad, knowing. This confuses me, and for a moment I am thrown off guard.
The man, her partner, looks at the ground. Like most males around me now, he seems embarrasssed, uncomfortable. There are 10 questions in his mind, but he can't ask even one. He pulls a cell phone from his jacket, and, mumbling something about a call, he excuses himself.
Alone with her now, I notice a slight quivering in her body. She reminds me of the maiden in the painting on my therapist's wall. In the painting, a dashing young man, sword in hand, is protecting a frightened, wide eyed woman. I wonder why I should think of this now...
Her voice is soft, husky, as she questions me, gently prodding my memory. I am tired, and just want to be left alone. How many people have to pry into my soul beore this is over? I retell my story for the dozenth time--my voice a monotone, my face a mask. Suddenly, like the sun revealed by the passing of a dark cloud, I remember--
"Honey. He smelled of honey. His hands were sticky with it. And when he made me...made me..." And then I am crying against her breast. "It's all right, baby," she murmurs, holding me. "It's all right." In her voice there is resolve, determination--there is also hope.
Tonight I dreamed of the painting. But in my dream, it was the maiden who held the sword.
(inspired by the ep serendipity)
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Author Bast
SVU
I leave my mother reluctantly and walk with the detectives through the yard. They are quiet, thoughtful. I know what they are thinking, and I know what they want, but i will not help them.
We pause by the tether ball set. I hit the ball--hard. It strains at its mooring, then returns to me. I draw back to slam it again, and the woman touches my arm. "If you can remember anything, no matter how small, it will help us to help other girls." I look up at her, expecting the anxiousness I've seen in others when they question me. Instead her eyes are sad, knowing. This confuses me, and for a moment I am thrown off guard.
The man, her partner, looks at the ground. Like most males around me now, he seems embarrasssed, uncomfortable. There are 10 questions in his mind, but he can't ask even one. He pulls a cell phone from his jacket, and, mumbling something about a call, he excuses himself.
Alone with her now, I notice a slight quivering in her body. She reminds me of the maiden in the painting on my therapist's wall. In the painting, a dashing young man, sword in hand, is protecting a frightened, wide eyed woman. I wonder why I should think of this now...
Her voice is soft, husky, as she questions me, gently prodding my memory. I am tired, and just want to be left alone. How many people have to pry into my soul beore this is over? I retell my story for the dozenth time--my voice a monotone, my face a mask. Suddenly, like the sun revealed by the passing of a dark cloud, I remember--
"Honey. He smelled of honey. His hands were sticky with it. And when he made me...made me..." And then I am crying against her breast. "It's all right, baby," she murmurs, holding me. "It's all right." In her voice there is resolve, determination--there is also hope.
Tonight I dreamed of the painting. But in my dream, it was the maiden who held the sword.
(inspired by the ep serendipity)
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