Blame it on the Alcohol

Standing in front of the stove, M thought over the first time she and Carmon shared a meal together. While they weren't the closest of friends in the beginning, M couldn't help but like the girl. She reminded her of herself quite a bit and if you couldn't like someone like yourself, well that was a problem. But that wasn't what she was thinking about. She was thinking about the lecture she had gotten about her reports and how they only told part of the story, how she only knew part of the story.

She didn't like not knowing things.

Turning away from where she was stirring the soup, she looked at the teen sitting at the table, once again drawing in her journal. Glancing down at the page, she found a charcoal picture of her cooking. Frowning, she tilted her head slightly, 'Why is she drawing me cooking?'

Shaking her head, she turned back to the stove and turned the plate down, letting the soup sit for a few minutes. Wiping her hands on the tea towel she had resting over her shoulder, she looked at Carmon, patiently waiting for her to stop drawing.

"What are you staring at M?" Carmon asked as she carefully smudges some of the black dust into the corner of the page.

"I'm waiting for you to stop drawing."

"Why?"

"So I don't distract you." She replied, folding the piece of material up.

Looking up, Carmon offered a small smile, "You don't have to you know, I'm not going to go off the handle just because you want to speak to me for a minute."

"Well," M said, licking her lips nervously, "What I want to talk about may take a little longer then that."

Frowning now, Carmon sat up straight, "What do you want to talk about?" She asked slowly, watching the short woman closely.

Pulling on her fingers, M hesitated in her answer.

"You want to talk about Dad."

She nodded.

Sighing, Carmon covered her unfinished sketch with a sheet of baking paper and closed her book, gently pushing it away from her, "What do you want to know?"

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, M locked eyes with the teen, "What don't I know about him as a child? What didn't the reports tell me?"

M was fascinated and horrified by the change in the girl in front of her at her questions. While not the most open person to begin with, Carmon was somewhat of an open book when she was with M, but now, now she was impossible to read. Her usual twinkle of mischief was gone, replaced with a look of cold anger.

"From the age of four to the day those people died, Andrew Bond and Monique Delacroix-Bond abused him. Emotionally, mentally and physically." Carmon said as if reading from the morning news paper, "Andrew was the one who did most of it, Monique stuck with verbal abuse and scotch." Narrowing her eyes at the frozen woman, she spoke carefully, "His father sexually assaulted when he was nine years old."

Gasping, M covered her mouth with her shaking hands.

"Each night, he would help his mother to bed after she drank herself into a stupor, then late at night his father would come to his room. If he had a good day, all he would get was some yelling, maybe a couple of hits. If it was a bad day…" She trailed off, knowing M knew what happened.

Swallowing thickly, the petite woman blinked back her tears, "Did-Did anyone know?" She whispered, her voice thick with pain.

Carmon nodded.

"Who?"

"Kincade."

M opened and closed her several times before finally asking, "Did he do anything? Say anything?"

"He blamed it on the alcohol and sent him back to them."

With nothing left to say, Carmon pulled her journal back in front of her, opening to a new page.

Still in front of the stove, M watched as the teen drew yet another picture of her, this one looking like she wanted to cry. 'Oh how I want to.' Turning back to the soup, she pulled it off and divvied it out.

Life went on.