At the crime scene

(Grissom sits on his little, foldable, plastic chair, collecting prints from the husband's desk in his office. Sara is in the daughter's room collecting hair off of her bed.)

(The daughter's room is painted a light shade of pink, a colour which Sara despises now, but loved when she was a little girl. Her room was almost the same shade as the victim's and Sara loved it, except, when the pink got covered up by red. This thought made Sara's mind wander to the memories of how the red got on her walls: the yelling, screaming, fighting, and slaps that could be heard throughout her house. These thoughts were now in Sara's mind. She can't stand having these thoughts in her mind for another second, so she grabs the evidence already collected and leaves the room to go and find Grissom.)

Sara: Griss?

(Grissom jumps at the sound of her voice.)

Grissom: Sorry Sara, you scared me.

(Sara looks panicked and out of breath. Grissom's face turns to a look of concern.)

Grissom: Sara, are you okay?

(She tries to smile, but it comes off as weak and fake.)

Sara: Yeah, I'm fine. I just need you to finish processing the little girl's room for me.

(Grissom looks at her curiously.)

Grissom: Okay…but why?

(Sara leans on the desk with her latex gloved hands.)

Sara: Please, don't go there Grissom.

(As Sara leans more on the desk, Grissom catches a glimpse of a blue laced bra which surprises him because he always took Sara as a plain, white bra kind of girl. Grissom immediately snaps his head back up to her eyes, knowing he shouldn't be thinking of Sara that way, period…or at least not at work. Thankfully, Sara's eyes are focused on the ceiling, so she doesn't know that Grissom just got a free peep show.)

Grissom: Come on, tell me what's wrong. Is it about your childhood?

(Grissom stands up and reaches a hand over the desk to touch Sara's shoulder for a few seconds.)

Grissom: It's okay if it is.

(Grissom sits back down as Sara grabs and pulls open another chair, just like Grissom's, and sits across from him on the other side of the desk.)

Grissom: Sara, what is it about the little girl's room that brings back these painful memories?

Sara: Well, the little girl's room is painted a shade of pink that almost matches the shade I had in my bedroom as a young child. That thought led to thoughts of how…of how…

(Sara starts to cry.)

Sara: I hated the pink when blood got on the walls.

(Grissom looks shocked.)

Grissom: Sara, I always thought your parents fought with each other in either their bedroom or the living room. I thought your room was your safe haven to get away from it all.

(Sara closes her eyes and tries to stop crying.)

Sara: They never fought in my room, but my room was never safe.

(Grissom's face starts to turn red with anger when he realizes what Sara means.)

Grissom: Sara, you never told me your father hit you.

(Sara opens her eyes and Grissom can see the hurt in her eyes flare into a little bit of anger.)

Sara: Jeez Grissom! Stop saying my name every time you speak! You make me feel like I'm talking to a therapist and I hate therapists!


(Grissom looks stunned at her outburst. Sara takes in a deep breath and starts to calm down. Grissom can see the hurt replace the anger again in her eyes.)

Sara: In answer to your question, Dr. Grissom, both of my parents hit me.

(Grissom let's his mouth hang open at the shock, but then closes it, wanting to know the important details.)

Grissom: Did Children's Services find out you were being abused?

Sara: Eventually. You see, whenever my parents had to take me to the hospital, to have me cleaned up, they always told the doctors I was a clumsy kid and always tripped over everything. They made me agree. Before we would enter the hospital, they would make me swear not to tell anyone what really happened or they said they would give me something worse to cry about. I never found out what the "something worse" was because I always kept my mouth shut. Children's Services didn't find out until my mother killed my father. When they took me into custody I had to have a physical exam done. When they did the exam they found internal bruises over six years old. After that, my foster parents had to take me to therapy sessions three times a week for twelve years. That's where my hate of therapists started.

(As Sara looks into Grissom's eyes for the first time since starting her speech, she notices something she has never seen before. He is crying.)

Grissom: Oh, honey. Come here.

(Grissom stands up and moves around to the other side of the desk with his arms open. Sara looks dumbfounded at his words and movements but her body slowly moves towards his and he wraps his arms around her protectively. They just stand there for minutes on end, her face and arms against his chest and his face in her hair.)