My father said that I was in good hands. He left my mother for a much younger woman; it didn't sit well with my mother. He said that I would always have a home with Mom; he neglected to mention where he was going or how I could contact him. I was ten years old sitting on the porch watching my father leave with a blonde woman that clung to his every move. The letters continued for a year, but my father seemingly fell of the planet.
Life changed drastically from that moment forward. My brother had already moved out of the house; after turning eighteen, he wasted no time packing his bags and saying good-bye. I remember watching him leave in a beat up old Toyota that only made it to Los Angeles on luck and silent prayers. He said he'd call. He said that he loved me. I haven't heard from him since. Sometimes, I wonder if he's dead; other times I wonder what was so wrong with me that he never called.
At ten years old, I watched my entire world begin to fall apart. I watched my mother slowly and progressively stop caring. I couldn't make it better. I couldn't make the right food for supper; I couldn't get good enough grades. She always found fault in me. She found fault in most of the world around her. She became a cold and bitter woman that in no way resembled my mother. I couldn't even bear to call her my mother; I called her Laura. I was slapped across the mouth for that act of disrespect, but I attributed it to her state of emotional shock. At that point, I didn't know how it would escalate. I didn't know how much my life would change.
The men would come and go. Some would stay the night; others would throw a few bucks on the table to thank Laura for her services. I knew what was going on, so did the rest of the town. Tamales Bay wasn't a huge community; it was so small that a scarlet letter was quickly associated with Sidle family name. We had committed so many sins. People knew our secrets, but none of them ever stepped in to make things right for the youngest victim . . . me.
Eight days shy of my eleventh birthday I called the cops frantically explaining that I needed someone to come save me. I could barely talk, let alone breathe. There was a tremendous amount of blood in my mouth and my jaw was broken. I couldn't see out of my right eye; there was too much blood.
Her john finished with her early. She lay passed out in her bed; probably, too much ethanol and God knows what else she took to make giving up sex a little easier. He came into my room in the middle of the night. I remember the feeling of his hand over my mouth; I remember him telling me not to make a sound. I remember thinking that I wouldn't make it to my eleventh birthday.
He molested me in the cruelest way possible. Laura walked in and accused me of taking her business away. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she meant it. She wasn't kidding when she fired off a bunch of obscenities. Laura beat me senseless. Her knuckles pounded the entire extent of my body. I remember the look of rage in her eyes; that was the minute that I knew that I was no longer her daughter. I had become her burden. I wanted to die; there was no one left to love me as I needed to be. At ten years old, I was wishing for death to come quickly, but it wouldn't. I would spend weeks in the hospital getting my broken body repaired. There were endless surgeries. There was one very kind plastic surgeon that did all the repair work for free; he said I reminded him of his daughter when she was young.
Social workers and child services searched for my father and my brother, but each day I was greeted with the sorrow of being unwanted. A few women from the community had come to see me; they saw the story on the local news. They felt bad for me; they brought me stuffed animals. I didn't want them; I wanted my family. It was something that I would never have again.
I was tossed from foster home to foster home before James and Tanya Adams decided to take me in permanently. I was a quiet, scared sixteen year old that they wanted to heal. The social workers slowly disappeared; I lived with the Adams in their quiet suburban home with no complaints. I never bonded with them, but I made sure they knew that I was thankful for the security that they provided for me. I cleaned my room, I made supper after school, and I excelled in every facet of school. This seemed to please them, but I couldn't open up to them. I would never open up to anyone. I remained a broken, fragile being that always felt lost among people that were so well-adjusted.
I'm staring at the computer screen. I want to know if Laura has been paroled. I want to know, but I don't want to know. I've changed addresses so many times that the courts have had a hard time keeping up with me. I have no desire to go to court and explain all the reasons why Laura should not be paroled. I'm too tired to do that; I am in no way strong enough to do that.
I look at Sophia and Grissom and the guys in the conference room across the hall. I feel isolated. I feel the room getting smaller. I know I'm hyperventilating; I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep this emotional outburst tucked away. This hurts too much; it hurts so much that it had burned a hole in my belly that I've never been able to patch.
The news is inevitable. Laura has been paroled; she's been out for a year. I hurl the nearest coffee mug against the wall. The sound of glass shattering doesn't make me feel better; I had hoped it would. I look around momentarily self-conscious. They all are looking at me. I quickly turn off the computer and look for an escape; I move like a wounded animal. I must look like one too because none of them approach me. My shift is over; I quickly clock out. I toss my things into my locker and run down the hall in an attempt to escape. Once I am outside, I feel like I can breathe again. Breath is quickly replaced by nausea and angry, acidic tears that burn my face. I quickly lock myself into my Tahoe. I rest my head on the steering wheel and begin to sob.
They haven't followed me. After four and a half years, I had the modest expectation that one of them might. I am closer to my co-workers than I ever was to my family, but I find myself alone again. This time there is no social services to save me or plastic surgeon to carefully disguise my wounds. I'm on my own, and I don't have any idea as to how to fix myself.