I sat at the edge of our empty bed, hands trembling, staring down at the folder that felt like it held so many answers… but I also knew I wouldn't be the same after opening it.
I sat there, folder in hand, until water drops fell and started to discolor the folder. It took me longer than it should to realize that I was crying.
I was crying…
Men don't cry son...
I'll give you something to cry about...
Men are tough Declan, crying is for bitches...
I was crying… Sucking in a shaky breath, I closed my eyes, opened the folder and then opened them. Eyes locking on a picture of a little girl who looked like how I envisioned our children would. Except in my dreams our kids had sparkly eyes just like their mom. This little girl’s eyes were the same colour but they had no warmth, no sparkle... they were flat... hollow.
Just like they were that night...
My hands shook harder as my eyes drifted from the picture to the file details, Molly Kent age 10 suspected trafficking victim, parents never reported her missing, a friend from school brought her absence up to a teacher and a missing person’s report had finally been filed…
My hands shook harder as I continued to read, at one point I dropped the folder and barely made it to the bathroom before the bile, guilt and anguish made their way out of me.
On shaky legs I made my way back to our bed, carefully picking up the folder and finishing reading every hospital report, every detail the police had included in her file that was far too big for such a small child. I forced myself to read every word, every page.
When I was finally done reading my eyes were blurry and the tears hadn’t stopped, I didn't realize I was gasping until the door to our room opened and Ledger was standing there with a look of pain on his face. I looked away, ashamed of myself. Not for my tears but for everything else. For the man I thought I was and the one who I was actually seeing now that she held up a mirror to each and every one of us.
My eyes tracked across the room, the empty dresser catching my eye, then the closet… the door still partially open revealing the clothes I bought her still hanging there like ghosts.
My jaw tightens, as the bile climbs back up my throat.
Those stupid fucking dresses.
Tight leather. Short skirts. Boots like the club girls wear.
I bought them thinking I was helping her fit in.I thought she was being difficult by not accepting them. Now it just feels like another place where I missed the point. Before I realize what I’m doing I am across the room, grabbing the hangers and ripping them off the rod.
The metal screeches and an animalistic sound rips from my chest.
Clothes fall to the floor in a useless pile, as my fist slams into the closet door. Wood cracks and pain shoots through my hand but I barely feel it.
“Fuck!”
The word echoes through the room.
My chest heaves, but I don’t stop. I roar, a sound so full of regret and pain, turning in frantic circles in the room. Her file open on our bed, a bed I made her sleep in, a space she didn't feel safe in… I don’t think, I move. The bed gets tossed, the side table trashed, the lamp thrown across the room, cracking against the wall. I vaguely notice more people standing at the door, but I don’t care.
Memories, times together are flooding my mind and it feels like I can't breathe.
When there is nothing left to break, when there is nothing more for me to focus my rage and pain on I crumble to the ground, crying… gasping and trying to pull in enough air to breathe.
I feel so lost, so out of control.
I did this.
I…
I bury my face in my hands trying to calm my heart. Minutes pass and then I feel someone sit to my right, and then my left. Then I hear debris being moved, glass crunching, a chair being righted and then nothing.
No one says a word.What can you say?
We thought we were the good guys, we thought we were men,family, loyal, protectors… What a fucking joke. We are the problem, this club is the problem. We have a lot of work to do to fix the damage we have done…