He doesn't have the right to ask those things of me in my own home. He doesn't have the right to sit before me contemplating whether or not to touch me as I cry for sins committed lifetimes ago. He doesn't have the right to make me crumble before him, so he can take the credit for slowly rebuilding whatever he can salvage of me.

He's been gone for well over two hours. I'm still sitting in my chair crying about a man that tortured my mother for years . . . for years before she ended it all. The color of blood against white walls; the sound of her rage . . . it stayed with me. The impressions that night made will never leave me. I'm a product of those early relationships . . . those early sins. I wonder if she would still love me when I tell her I'm angry as hell at her . . . at him.

Grissom must think I'm crazy for wondering if there is a 'murder' gene. The only person that I am really trying to kill is myself. I rationalize that makes me a murderer; it makes me an abuser no different from my father. The apple never does fall far from the tree.

It's the middle of the afternoon. I would normally be awake preparing for another night at work. I would normally be listening to the police scanner in an attempt to remember that I am fighting with the good guys, not against them. It doesn't always work. I fight against Catherine and Grissom. I think I've begun to wage a war against Eckley. The problem is that I don't care. I really don't give a damn about them anymore.

They don't see it. They don't see the scars because my mother hid them so well. They don't see how I try to gain approval from any authority figure that I can find just because I wish my father loved me. They don't see it; therefore, they don't see me.

I've always wished my father was another man. I've always wished that I could have brought boyfriends home to a place with some semblance of normalcy. I wish that someday my father could walk me down the aisle; I wish my mother could be sitting in the front pew watching her only daughter get married. It's never going to happen. The fairytale ended way before it ever began.

I was writing a crude suicide letter when Grissom interrupted me. I shuffled papers around so he would think that I was doing my bills or some other normal household chore. I always begin to write the same letter, but I never finish. I never finish because I've never known who to address the letter to. I don't have a father. My mother doesn't even know me anymore. God only knows where my brother is. I never knew my grandparents. There is no one to claim my body. There is no one to pack up my personal things.

I've always thought of packing up my apartment before . . . I say good-bye. I don't really know who I'm saying good-bye to anymore. The nightshift doesn't exist anymore. The 'swing shift' doesn't see us much anymore. They don't make an attempt to see us much anymore. I don't know if I'm even obligated to say good-bye to them. Sophia . . . I don't know Sophia. I shouldn't say good-bye to her if I've never said hello. Greg . . . I should say good-bye to him.

I pull the crude letter out again. I don't know what to do with it. Saving it makes me crazy, and throwing it out runs the risk of someone finding it. I might as well wear it as my scarlet letter. It defines me as a murderer and an abuser.

There's knocking at the door. I figure it's probably Grissom so I check the peephole first. I don't want to talk to Grissom anymore. I realize it's stupid to think it's Grissom; he's probably still at work. He's probably still happy with his lonely, hermetic life. I'm not; I'm so damn sick of being alone.

"Sara, it's Greg. Open up please," Greg says as he begins to pound on the door. I open the door for him. He doesn't ask me invasive questions. He doesn't force me to tell him my secrets. He just holds me until I hand him the letter and ask him to please help me.