She cut onions whenever she wanted to cry without letting the world know that she was momentarily feeling weak. I could occasionally smell the lingering odor on her hands; it was occasionally transferred onto all the documents that she handled. I was never brave enough to ask her why she needed to hide behind the burning fumes of onions. I would have preferred that she just cried; it would have made her seem so much more human than what she pretended to be.
Sometimes, I would close my eyes and remember the last time that she was human. It seemed like ages ago. Her eyes weren't always so cold. Her gaze didn't always feel impersonal. She was once a very different woman, but that was when she was pretending to be a different person altogether. She always did feel as though she needed to run from her past . . . from herself.
She didn't have a reason to trust any of us. I don't think we ever showed her the kindness that Catherine had shown me or Grissom had shown Warrick. I don't think anyone tried to comfort her after the debacle at the mental institution. Sometimes, I wondered if she wanted us to run to her and try to make things better. I'd look at her and wonder if she needed someone to hold her after she finished dicing onions.
I stumbled upon her habit several times. The first few times I thought nothing of the tears pouring down her face as she sliced an onion. The second and third time I remembered seeing the tears continue to pour down her face long after the onion was slice. She made awkward comments about the fumes irritating her sensitive eyes. I didn't buy it for a second.
I understood her kind. I, after all, wasn't all that different. I ran away from my home and my family because I didn't feel as though I belonged. I felt dirty compared to my perfect siblings. I knew she felt the same way; her mother's actions, somehow, have made her feel a little less pure than she actually was. I always knew that there was something more to her; I knew that she had secrets. I knew what it felt like to carry that much emotional baggage every day.
Today, I sat at the table while she masterfully chopped an onion at the make-shift workstation she created in the break room. Tears streamed down her face as she concentrated on her precise cuts. Her sadness was nearly palpable. I awkwardly stood up and walked over to her.
"What's wrong, Sara?" I asked softly.
"It's the onion. My eyes are sensitive," Sara lamely lied as she placed the knife down and tried to stem the steady flow of tears.
"What's wrong?" I asked. The tears began to flow a little bit faster. I wrapped my arms around her as the quiet tears gave way to full-blown sobs. I wondered how many more times she would chop onions rather than accept my kindness.
