mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood,
miss 'no way it's all good,'
it didn't slow me down
mistaken, always second guessing,
look, I'm still around.

"My parents were investigated for child abuse on more than one occasion," Emma confessed, seemingly out of the blue as she took off a pair of rubber gloves after disinfecting the counter after dinner. Will raised a brow, looking up from grading a stack of freshman Spanish papers.

"And...were the investigations...warranted?" He questioned, not wanting to come right out and ask if her mom and dad had ever put her in compromising situations. They certainly weren't pleasant people, but he couldn't imagine them risking their status in their high-class world by taking any sort of advantage of their daughter.

She shrugged, sitting next to him, still playing with the gloves. "With today's definition of abuse, maybe. I mean, the eighties and nineties were a bit lacking in regulations and standards. I think that maybe neglect would be more what I could categorize them with, now. Granted, I didn't exactly help the situation...but, still. It wasn't my job as the child to understand what was going on."

Will sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. "I don't really know what you're talking about."

Emma sighed. "As you've probably realized, my folks didn't want to...don't want to admit that I have a disability. That would have ruined their image...to have a daughter with a mental illness. For a long time, they brushed off my behaviors and when they eventually had to come to grips with the fact that they didn't have a normal child, they simply thought I was weird. A freak, whatever. But, in all that, they'd just...let me do whatever it was I thought I had to do. They never tried therapy or medication...and I wouldn't have wanted them to, but at the same time, it shouldn't have been a choice for me."

"Parents are supposed to do what's best for their kids, whether the child agrees with it or not," Will supplied, trying to understand her logic.

"Yes, exactly. Well, when things started to get really bad...when I was in forth or fifth grade, I really...really don't remember at this point...um, I'd spend hours, days scrubbing floors. I'd get home from school and clean until I went to bed. They never tried to stop me. I'd use all sorts of chemicals, whatever was under the sink. I didn't even know what most of them were...I'd just pick whatever sounded the strongest, and would make everything the most clean. But at the time, I didn't really know what they could do to me. I just wanted everything to be clean...perfect. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, or washed...nothing was ever good enough."

Will put down his pen and pushed his papers to the side, realizing Emma was truly opening up about something from her past — which didn't happen often.

"I'll never forget the day that Mrs. Turner brought me down to the office..." She breathed heavily again. "I'd been scrubbing with bleach, all weekend. From the time I woke up, to the time I went to bed...everything I did involved cleaning with bleach. Counters, walls...mostly the kitchen and bathroom floors. And at the time, I just used old rags...and...it got to the point where I was starting to get bleach burns from using it so much and so hard and for so long. My entire hands were red and peeling...and it was really kind of gross, but...my teacher brought me to the office and asked me what happened. I told them I had been cleaning all weekend. They assumed my parents were using me...as like, child labor or something. They called CPS...there was a huge investigation. They were about to take me out of the house. It was kind of scary."

"Wait...what? Emma, I...after all that, they never thought to get you...help?"

Emma shrugged, clearing her throat. "I don't know. Maybe they thought about it. I still see that morning, clear as day...Mrs. Turner and the social worker questioning me...trying to feed me stories that simply weren't true..."

Emma's raw, scabbed hands curled around themselves in her lap as she counted silently in her head, wringing them together until she got to the number she most needed. She hated sitting in the office. It always smelled like ink toner and germs, germs of the sick kids who were waiting for their mother to come and take them home. Johnny-pukes-a-lot sat two seats over from her, clutching his stomach, and Emma had to fight herself to keep from sliding out the door, escaping the bacteria which was leaking off his body. Mrs. Turner said this was very important. She had to wait here.

"Emma, could you come with me?" The kind, young woman questioned, nodding towards the principal's office. The little redhead nodded, biting her lip, fearing the worst. What had she done which deserved the principal's attention? Her parents would be furious...

A strange woman in a pantsuit with wide, blue shoulders sat in a chair next to the one Emma was directed to. "Hello, there. My name is Monica. You must be Emma." The fourth grader nodded, keeping her gaze to the floor, where her eyes were locked on a brown stain in the carpet. When she didn't get a verbal response, Monica continued. "Mrs. Turner called me because she's worried about your hands. They look like they hurt very much. Do they hurt, pumpkin?"

Emma's nose twitched at the nickname. Pumpkins were orange, like her hair. She wasn't crazy about her hair.

"You can answer her, Emma, it's okay," Mrs. Turner insisted, nodding with an encouraging smile.

"They...they hurt, a little bit...but, it's fine, I—"

"Emma, can you tell me how you got those booboos on your hands?" Monica asked, too sweetly.

While she wouldn't call them booboos, Emma responded, "I was cleaning."

The social worker raised a brow. "Cleaning? Emma, what were you cleaning?"

"The floor," She responded, biting her lip. "And...the walls...and...the counters." She bent her head, feeling shamed, the reason for her feelings she couldn't put a finger on.

Monica nodded. "And why were you cleaning?"

Tired of the interrogation, Emma mumbled, "I had to."

"You had to? Honey, why did you have to?"

Feeling uncomfortable, the little girl stood, "I...I don't want to talk about it anymore. My hands will get better. They always do."

"Always? Have you burned your hands cleaning more than one time?"

Nodding, Emma moved towards the door. "Mrs. Turner, it's time for reading circles, and I haven't even written my daily journal and I'm going to be very behind if we don't go back to class."

The teacher, social worker, and principal conversed in low tones as Emma stared at the scars on her hands. They would heal. They always did.

"Emma, I'm sorry to disrupt your learning," Monica started, "But I'm going to have to have you come with me to a special place downtown."

Her large brown eyes nearly bugged out of her head. "No, no, I-I can't...I can't go anywhere. I have to go to class, I..."

Mrs. Turner stood in front of her student, careful not to touch her burnt hands, but being as kind as possible in the situation. "Emma, it's going to be okay. No one is going to make you do anything you don't want to anymore. Monica is going to help you."

"I-I don't need help," She attempted to insist, but was led out to a small, boxy brown car. She stiffened as the blue-clad woman encouraged her in.

"Go on, pumpkin. I'm a safe driver."

"But-but, your car...I can't get in, I—"

"Emma, it's very important that we get going as soon as possible.

"I-I can't, I—"

Monica gently pushed Emma until she was nearly inside, and the nine-year-old squeezed her eyes shut, letting a few tears brim to her lashes until she forced herself to sit in the seat, fumbling for the seatbelt.

They drove in silence, with Emma focusing on not passing out in the backseat of a stranger's car, and when they finally arrived at the building, Emma read the sign with confusion. "Why am I at Public Services? What is going on? Can I go back to school, I really don't want to miss math—"

Monica set a heavy hand on Emma's shoulder, forcing the girl to flinch visibly at the unexpected contact. "It's going to be okay," Was her only response, clearly reading more into the reaction to the touch than the fact that her hand was coated in a layer of invisible filth.

After waiting uncomfortably in another germ-infested chair, Emma was escorted by Monica into what appeared to be a nurses station. A physician's assistant stepped into the room with a wide, fake smile. "Hello, Emma! Can I take a look at your hands?"

Emma, who had refused to sit on the examination table, hid her hands behind her back, keeping her eyes locked on a dustball in the corner of the room.

"Come on, now, I just need to take a look—"

"They're fine! They hardly hurt! They always heal!" She said, frustrated that none of the adults around her were listening, although it was really nothing new.

"Always heal?" The PA sighed, bending at Emma's level as the girl walked backwards until she hit a wall, cringing and shutting her eyes tight as the PA gently took her wrists into her hands. Tears dribbled down Emma's face as the woman shook her head, a sweet smile present on her face. "Sweetie, it's going to be okay. You'll be okay."

"It is okay," Emma insisted, sniffing. "Please, let me go."

Yet, she was continued to be ignored. For several hours, she sat in a waiting room. There were plenty of toys she could have engaged in, and paper and crayons were readily available. But all Emma could bring herself to do was sit in a plastic chair, her knees drawn to her chest as she fought wave after wave of nausea from her unclean environment.

When she caught sight of the clock, she realized school should have been out for the day. She should be in her mother's car, she should be on the way home—where was her mother? Did she even know where she was?

Her answers came when she heard the familiar high pitched sounds of Rose Pillsbury, storming her opinionated body down the hallway. "To think we've abused her? Worked her to this? She's just crazy! That's not our fault!"

The door was flung open and Emma's mother stood with a somber expression on her face and her father's hands were jammed in his pockets as he waited behind her. Not a word was exchanged as they moved down the hallway and to the front desk, where a few papers were signed before the Pillsbury's were riding home, not a word passed between them.

"And at that point, your mom and dad didn't bother to think that you might have a problem?"

Emma stood, flinging the gloves she'd been wearing into a drawer. "Nope. But that night, they bought my first pair of rubber gloves, and told me I wasn't aloud to clean anything unless I was wearing them. They also gave me some lotion for my hands, and told me to put it on every night to help the burns." Will's eyes flickered to their bedroom, where a bottle sat on the nightstand. Emma cleared her throat. "Some habits are really hard to break."

"I think I understand why you wanted to become a guidance counselor," Will commented, standing to meet her in the middle of the kitchen. "That whole time, no one really listened to you. There wasn't anyone for you to talk to, no one who let you say your side of the story. Now, you give kids that opportunity every day. Just, someone they can talk to. Judgement free, but receive advice if they want it. I think you've come a long way, Em."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and she smiled, hugging his middle. "I think so, too. I mean, there were other investigations over time. One time, when I was ten and didn't know better, I mixed bleach and ammonia, thinking I'd double clean the bathroom. The door was closed most of the way...I passed out. If my brother hadn't found me when he did, I'd probably have been dead. But the hospital staff that took care of me was convinced my mom and dad were trying to kill me...and it was just a big mess. There were more, but...nothing ever came out of them. My parents were never arrested, and I was never given help." Will absorbed her story, letting silence linger before he led them to the living room, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen before directing Emma to sit down. "What's this for?"

"We're going to make a list," He started, smiling slightly. "Obviously, you didn't have a great upbringing, and mine wasn't without flaws. I want us to write down the behaviors we want to avoid. That way, if we have the opportunity to raise children ourselves," He said, catching her twinkling eye, "We'll know just the kind of parents we want to be."

"I like that," Emma smiled widely. "I like that a lot...You know, when my mom and dad were over last week, you said that you'd show our child compassion, and that's great, Will, it really is...but I think, that, if we did...have a child together, and they did have a disability, that we'd have to do anything we could to advocate for them. You know, whatever it took, getting them into a program to help them, or special services through the school, really helping them, not just letting them...manifest their problem."

Will stared at her, hearing words he never imagined. She was really reflecting on everything that had gone wrong in her life, and she didn't want to make the same mistakes her own parents had. He set the paper down, cupping her face. "You are amazing, Emma," He grinned, dropping one hand. "I hope that someday, I am blessed enough to have a child with you. The world needs more people like you."

"Crazy people?" She joked, smirking. "But if our child was...crazy? I'd never let them feel like they were. I'd never put them down, or tease them about it...I'd do my best to help them conquer whatever it was." Will leaned forward, capturing her lips in a soft kiss. When he pulled back, she continued with a final thought. "No child should have to go through what I did. If I ever have a child," She lifted the paper into her hands, scribbling in her delicate scrawl, "I'll never make them feel anything less than perfect."

Cue Will using Emma's words to have the Glee Club break into Pink's smash hit, Fucking Perfect.

Hope you enjoyed this! I truly loved episode three, it was brilliant! Would have loved to see more of little!Emma though, which was why I wrote this. Hopefully you liked this elaboration on it! Reviews are most welcome!