Continues ~

▪ I imagine this woman has plenty of them. Her lackluster red hair is still stuck in the style of the eighties, and her gray suit does absolutely nothing for her pale complexion. She pushes her glasses up the ridge of her nose and takes a sip from a mug that proclaims she’s been to Disneyland. At least she has that going for her, I guess.

▪ “Look, uhm…” She glances down at the paperwork before her to find my name. The same name I’ve already told her twice.

  “Alessandro,” I repeat.

▪ “Yes, Alessandro.” She straightens her posture and sighs. “I understand your frustrations. Really, I do. I know it might not seem like it, but the investigation is still ongoing. I can promise you, it’s being handled.”

▪ Anger boils inside of me like lava, threatening to spill over and destroy everything around me at any moment. I swear these assholes are pre-programmed to say the same thing on repeat. And I’m so sick of this same old song and dance. All my life they’ve been spoon-feeding me this bullshit. Foster carers, social workers, police, and everyone else telling me they know what’s best. I’ve been ping ponged around the system so much I barely have the energy to fight it anymore.

▪ That’s what they want. They want me to go back home and give up. They assume that eventually, as the months roll by and turn into years, the pain will fade and I’ll just forget she ever existed. But that isn’t going to happen. I won’t give up on her, ever.

 ▪ I take a deep breath and shove the worn photograph across the desk. A four-by-five snapshot of a rare candid moment. Adelina is smiling and glancing over her shoulder with the purest eyes you’ve ever seen. She’s never been much of a smiler, honestly. Too many demons. But I caught this one on film, and it’s something I’ve always treasured. I want them to know she was a real person, with real feelings. Plus, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my research, it’s that the news outlets love to talk about the girls with a pretty smile.

▪  “Just look at her face,” I plead. “Look at this girl. Not her file number, but her face. She’s not a street walker, or a call girl, or whatever the hell it is you think that makes her less important. She doesn’t do drugs, and she isn’t a criminal. Her name is Adelina berman”

▪ My lip trembles, but I go on. I’m not a crier. If my dad were here, he’d be telling me to get my shit together. Emotions are a luxury that Wilder’s can’t afford. That philosophy bled into our relationship too, staining or strengthening it, depending on how you look at it. He told me not to cry, so I didn’t. He told me not to care about anyone, so I didn’t. I squashed it all down and locked it up deep inside me. Truthfully, I feel too much. But you wouldn’t know that about me. Nobody does.

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