 | ShatterStorm Productions
|
| ShatterStorm Productions
|
A/N: This was my response to the episode, but I got stuck about halfway through and didn't get around to finishing it until now. And yeah, after seeing the promos for this week I'm pretty sure the show's gonna go in a completely different direction, but I figure hey, since I'm posting it before the show tells me I'm wrong, it's all good;)
Humanity 1/1
From where you're standing, you've got a few choices as to where to go. Gil's in his office with Sofia, and they're laughing and probably flirting. He never did learn his lesson. You could go in there, break up their little party, tell Gil that he's inadvertently hurt enough women already. Tell him that he's in no position to be giving anyone false hope, because god knows he'll never follow through.
The guys are in the break room. Nicky's breaking out some popcorn, and they're laughing and joking around. You heard about the body Greg found. The little boy, stuffed in a plastic crate like yesterday's garbage. You think it's good that he's able to smile now. You could join them- you've always had a place as "one of the guys", even though you're decidedly not one. You could sit there and bask in the easy camaraderie that you all still have. You could forget everything that Ecklie stole from you by putting you in the position of being the boss of them. Could forget that you're stuck in this world where friends become subordinates, mothers are forced to work hours that render them unable to see their children, and little boys get starved to death and literally tossed to the curb.
You wonder how Sara's doing. She's sitting alone in one of the labs, a laptop computer on the table in front of her. She's staring at it, fingers resting on the keys, not moving. She types something, and she's turned away from you, but if you could see her face you're pretty sure it would have that controlled expression that you know so well. You saw it in your car, when she found out about Hank. It's the expression that tells you a war is raging silently behind her eyes, but she's too proud or too afraid to admit it to anyone.
This is the choice you have no plan for. You walk into the lab...and then what? What do you say? What do you do? Well, you know what you'd like to do, but you doubt she'd take it in stride if you rushed in, taking her in your arms and muttering assurances into her lips. No, this choice is far too complicated, too difficult to consider.
And too hard to resist. As you creep closer behind her, you can just make out the heading on the screen. "The People vs. Laura Sidle".
It hits you like a ton of bricks. You know you should have suspected something, in fact you'd been sure that something had happened to her at some point, but you'd never considered this. Never thought that her trust could have been betrayed by someone she was supposed to trust implicitly. Of course, you could be wrong, and this could be entirely unrelated to the case she's just closed, but you don't think so.
Your startled gasp must have alerted her to your presence, because she's now she's tensing and her hand moves like lighting to close the laptop.
"I'm sorry." The words can't begin to cover how guilty you feel for invading her privacy, accidental as it may have been. "I didn't mean to see that. You were just in here alone, and I thought I'd see if you wanted some company."
If anything could make you feel worse, it's the carefully guarded expression on her face as she looks down, around the room, anywhere but at you.
"I'm not really in the mood." Her voice is as even as her face, and it breaks your heart because you know there's no one she's going to talk to about this. She's not one to seek comfort in people. That's why you offered it once, and you think that maybe since she said yes then, you can convince her to say yes now.
"You sure? Shift's over, for both of us. We could go grab some food, or just a beer." You didn't think it was possible, but she tenses even more at this. You're not sure if it's because you're pushing, or because you said something wrong. Maybe it's both. She looks up at you sharply as your hand comes to rest on her shoulder. "You don't have to talk about it. I won't make you."
A half-smile teases her lips, but it doesn't quite reach her weary eyes. "What makes you think you could?"
"Is that a yes?" You shoot back, glad that she's at least okay enough to tease you. If it'll keep her smiling, you'll let this revelation slide, for now at least.
She's thinking, and you feel that familiar ache to know exactly what is going on in that complex mind of hers. She doesn't give you much time to ponder it.
"Sure, why not?" She's trying to sound enthused, but it comes out more defeated. Her voice is soft, barely audible when she mutters, mostly to herself. "We've all gotta eat."
And for a brief second she's lost in some distant memory, and you want so badly to ask her about it, to know exactly what happened to her, what she's remembering. But you'll keep your word; you'll only talk about it if she wants to.
"Great." Your voice snaps her back to the present, and you can't fight the smile that touches your lips as you realize she said yes. She smiles back, but you know it's just for your benefit. You'll take what you can get.
"Let's go."
_)_)_)_)_)_)
Breakfast was short and uneventful. Small talk and coffee and burnt toast. However, you did notice that she made sure not to leave any food on her plate. You wondered if it was because of the case, or if she'd always done it and you'd only noticed just then. You're trained to look at evidence, and in this case it's stacking up to one conclusion- one that you really don't want to face.
Now you're sitting in a bar, where she's working on her third beer, while you switched to water after your first. You're driving, after all. She takes a swig, and chuckles dryly as she holds up the bottle pointedly.
"My PEAP counselor would love this." Your eyebrow shoots up on its own accord.
"PEAP? What for?" Your confusion shocks her.
"You mean you don't know?" You shake your head. "I guess office gossip isn't what it used to be." She looks down at her bottle, avoids your eyes as she elaborates. "I got a DUI. After the Parker case."
You damn near choke on the water you're drinking as the pieces click into place. "Your vacation."
Your prize is a nod and a pained smile. "Forced leave."
It seems you're destined to screw up today. You realize that you probably shouldn't even have suggested alcohol, let alone taken her here. It must show on your face, because she's quick to reassure you.
"Don't worry, I, uh...I don't really have a drinking problem. It's more of a 'me' problem." You get the feeling she's rehearsed this. She's tense again, the muscles in her arm flexing as she grips her bottle. She's staring at it, probably thinking that this is around the time you bail, run far away from just the implication of her deep dark secrets. You're not running.
"Sara." Your voice is gentle and unobtrusive. Your hand on her arm, well, at least it's gentle. You catch the flinch, even though you can tell she tried not to. "I know I said I wouldn't make you talk about it, but if you want to, I'm all ears."
The moment of truth. This could make her finally open up to you, or it could make her cower and run. Her arm is rigid, the muscles tense under your hand.
"Take me home." Your heart sinks, and it's visible on your face, so she amends her statement, albeit nervously. "I, uh, I want to show you something. It's at home."
And before either of you can blink, you've slammed a couple of bills on the counter and grabbed her hand, leading her back out to your car.
"You'll have to give me directions."
_)_)_)_)_)
She's digging in her closet, and you know it's inappropriate to be thinking about the advantageous view you've got right now, but that doesn't stop you from thinking it. And then she's found whatever she was looking for, because she straightens up, clutching an old newspaper tightly to her chest. She looks like she's having second thoughts, and somehow you know that if you touch her, she'll retreat back into her shell and forget all about confiding in you, so you just speak quietly.
"Whatever it is, it stays between us." Your eyes say what your words can't, and it's apparently enough for her, because she holds out the newspaper. You take it gently from her, and she doesn't need to point, because from the way it's folded, and has been for quite some time- the date is October 12, 1984- it's obvious which article she wants you to read. The headline alone is enough to send you stumbling to the couch.
Modesto Mom Charged with Child Abuse
MODESTO- Trial begins today for Laura Sidle, the twenty-nine-year- old Modesto mother charged with abuse and neglect of her thirteen- year-old daughter. The alleged abuse was discovered when Sara was brought in to the emergency room for a fractured arm. A subsequent medical examination found evidence of physical abuse, as well as malnutrition and sexual assault. If found guilty, Mrs. Sidle faces up to six years in state prison and up to $6000 in fines.
Sara is currently being treated for malnutrition at Stanislaus County Hospital. "Her condition is improving," according to Samantha Davis, the girl's assigned social worker. "At least physically. She's been essentially starved for a long period of time, but her body shows all signs of a full recovery."
Mentally, however, the prognosis is unclear. "She's been through a tremendous ordeal, and it's evident in her interactions with myself and the hospital staff." Ms. Davis insists that "most of the time, she appears to be alright. She's a remarkably intelligent girl. In everyday activities, she appears to be incredibly well-adjusted under the circumstances."
However, she still refuses to say anything about the charges against her mother. When asked about the alleged abuse, "She clams up. Won't say a word. It's common in cases like this for the abused child to be afraid to come forward, out of fear that the abuser will find out, and [the child] will be punished."
When she is released from the hospital, Sara will be placed in foster care pending the results of the trial. The police are still attempting to locate the girl's father, who has been out of communication since he and Mrs. Sidle divorced in 1976.
When questioned about the charges, Mrs. Sidle declined to comment.
_)_)_)_)_)
"Oh my god." It's the only intelligible thought floating through your mind right now, among the "how's" (How could a mother do this to her own child?), the "why's" (Why Sara? Why did this have to happen to her?), and the desperate ache to know the rest of the story (What happened to Sara after the trial? Where did she go? How did she survive this?). You think of Lindsey, she's eleven now. You try to imagine if anything could ever make you do something like that to her. The idea makes you sick, your stomach lurching violently.
She's sitting tucked into the corner of the couch, looking down at her hands intently in hopes that you didn't notice her glancing at your face every few seconds as you read, trying to gauge your reaction. She looks terrified, as though your disgust, your intense anger, could somehow be meant for her. You never thought you could hate someone so much.
"Sara." It comes out strangled with emotion, and when she looks up at your face, she's visibly shocked at the vast amount of raw feeling openly displayed on your face. "I-" You want to say you're sorry, but it's too cliché, too trite, too inadequate. She seems to understand, and you wonder how many times she's seen this look, on the faces of all of the doctors, social workers, judges. On the face of everyone she's told over the last twenty years; but something tells you that number isn't very high.
She's close to tears, and to be honest, so are you. You know it took a lot for her to let down her walls enough just to let you read this, so you understand when she fights back her tears with a humorless laugh. Her voice trembles when she speaks.
"I've never told anyone. I mean, in Vegas. Except the shrink." She's staring at her hands again, and while you have to admit they're fascinating, you need her to see you when you respond. Her chin is soft under your finger as you guide her eyes up to meet yours.
"I'm honored that you told me." Her face is warm and flushed with imminent tears, her hair falling softly over her face as she lowers it again.
You realize you're still clutching the paper in a death grip, and you toss it on the coffee tablet as you give in to the urge to pull her into your arms. You're mothering and you know it, and you don't really expect her to be okay with it, but you need to hold onto her right now. And if she pulls away, you'll let her.
She's tense at first, but gradually relaxes as you hold her tightly. The contact breaks the invisible dam that was holding back both your tears, and you can feel them, wet and streaming down your face, damp on your neck as she rests her head on your shoulder. She's clinging to you now, and you want to tell her it'll all be okay, but you can't lie to her. Instead, your hands move in gentle circles across her tense back, hoping it provides some tiny bit of comfort.
Apparently it does, because after awhile the sobs subside. You realize that she probably needed this, but her fear kept her from asking for it. And since she acts so tough all the time, no one would have thought to offer. The fact that you did fills your heart with no small amount of pride.
It doesn't replace the curiosity, though, or the feeling that the conversation isn't over, that she might need to actually say the words, so you turn your head slightly and talk softly into her hair.
"Sara, honey, I know there's more. It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But if you want to, or need to, you have to know I'm not going to leave, and I'm not going to think less of you because of this."
Your heart clenches as you feel the tension return, her back stiffening as her arms drop from around you. The small space she puts between you feels like the Grand Canyon, and you're kicking yourself for pushing too hard. But just as you're about to really get into it with yourself, she begins to speak.
She speaks in stops and starts, staring at her clenched hands digging into her lap. She tells you about her mother; how when her parents divorced, Laura had gotten into one abusive relationship after another. How the boyfriends got steadily worse, and Sara was the one she took it out on. How Laura knew how to hide the bruises, how to instill the deathly fear of retaliation should Sara ever tell anyone what happened. How she neglected to buy groceries, always depending on her latest boyfriend to feed her, not giving Sara a second thought.
And finally, she tells you about when she was thirteen, and Laura's latest boyfriend decided he wanted the younger model. How he wasn't as smart about leaving evidence, and how her gym teacher discovered the broken bone, rushed her to the ER. She tells you about the weeks in the hospital, how surreal it was that everyone was nice to her, cared about her. The self-deprecation in her voice breaks your heart all over again, and you ache to touch her, to comfort her somehow, but tension is still radiating from her closed-off form, so you stay where you are.
She tells you about foster care, the home she was placed in during the trial. How her mother was found guilty on all counts, because she was too afraid of her boyfriend to tell the truth, and because Sara was too afraid of her to talk at all. She almost smiles when she tells you about her grandparents in Tamales Bay, who she was placed with when her mother was sentenced to the full six years. How they encouraged her academic interests, were so proud when she was accepted into Harvard.
The almost-smile disappears when she tells you how she used school to escape; how it was easier to lose herself in things that couldn't lie or hurt than it was to cope with what happened to her. How she eagerly sought out every bit of information she could find on abuse and rape, because understanding the science made it easier to distance herself from it.
And then it seems she's run out of things to say, or she's just realized how much she's told you, because she falls silent, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as fresh tears slide down her cheeks. You can't just sit here and watch her in this agony, so you pull her into your arms again, your own tears falling into her hair.
You don't know how long you hold her like this; tightly pressed against you, her arms around your waist. But eventually she moves, and you could swear you just felt her lips on your neck. Wishful thinking, you tell yourself, banishing the thought from your mind. But her arms are clutching tighter, and she's pulling her head away from your shoulder, and you barely have a split-second to adjust before she's kissing you.
It's not romantic in the least; it's desperate and searching and you know that you shouldn't let her do this, but god it feels so good and you've wanted to do this for so long that you don't even mind that she's in control. But she's not in control, and you know this, and you manage to convince yourself to push her away, even though it feels like the hardest thing you've ever done.
"Sara, no." Your voice is thick with regret, and her face hardens, and you just know she thinks that you're regretting that it ever happened. You reach for her cheek, your thumb gently brushing away the tears that are once again falling. "Not like this." You want her to kiss you when she's in her right mind, when she's not overwhelmed by the intense emotional rollercoaster ride she just went on with you. And a part of you is kicking yourself for pulling away, because what if she doesn't want to kiss you then?
But you know that you can't take advantage of her, you could never do that, so you pull her into a hug, murmuring softly in her ear. "You should sleep. Come on."
You take her by the hand, lead her to the bedroom. You help her pull off those massive boots she wears and pull back the blanket for her. When she climbs in, you follow, wrapping your arms around her. You place a soft kiss on her forehead, gently stroking her back as the exhaustion catches up to her and she drifts off to sleep.
As you watch her sleep, you can feel it all catching up to you; your mind keeps replaying the feeling of her lips on yours, the desperation you only pray was rooted in desire- for you, not just for anyone. You worry that she'll retreat, that the long-overdue friendship you've just formed will be shattered by your own desire for her. You worry that you'll come to regret your decision to go to her earlier in the lab, instead of choosing an easier option.
But she's beautiful when she sleeps, the tension that's always present in her face left behind in the waking world. And with her wrapped up protected in your arms, you know that you couldn't possibly come to regret the choice that brought her here, no matter what happens tomorrow.
fin.
