Do My Scars Define Me?

The Beginning

"And now we go live, to Roxanne, in downtown Gotham, where police are apprehending the intruder now. Roxanne."

I look away as the camera switched over to the live recording. I know who the intruder is, and I can't bear to see Batman escort him to a police car again. 

I can't stand watching my father go to jail again. 

It's not really because I care about him, per se. And defiantly not because I need him to provide for me. He doesn't give a crap about me when he is here, really. Just enough that he made sure I could kick the ass of anyone who tries to hurt me. But that's only because he thought I would be a useful tool. When I stopped helping him in his criminal activity because my mother got sick, he couldn't really do anything. Despite his history, and current occupation, he really did love my mother. He would just never say it to anyone but her.  Although, at least then he tried to stay out of jail.

But Mom died almost a year ago. One year in 3 weeks, 6 hours, and 22 minutes. December 3rd at 3:23 in the morning, my mother died in my arms at the local clinic. She had been sick for a long time, and when he went to jail that last time, something in her just gave up. Her last words were "I love you Sadie Jane. Never forget that." 

That day, I stopped going by Sadie. Hearing anyone else say it, was just too painful. Too hard.

I miss her so much. 

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I must have fallen asleep on the couch because I woke up to the front door slamming. It's been 3 weeks since he was arrested and he was supposed to get out today.

Guess he did. Yay.

I hear him slam around the kitchen, which isn't very well stocked, since I was going to go grocery shopping later today. I hear his shuffling footsteps cross the kitchen into the living room and stop in the archway that separates the two rooms. I sit up on the couch and turn around. 

"Hey." I say, taking in his haggard appearance. Jail doesn't really allow for the best living quarters. 

"Hey." He grunts back, taking in the living room, which I cleaned up a few days after he was arrested, and kept in pristine condition.

"You been here the whole time?" He asks. I nodded.

"Only left to get groceries." He nodded this time. Without meaning to, we both looked at the old grandfather clock that stood at the wall to the left of me. 

It read 3:13. Ten minutes. My mind slipped back to a year ago, with Mom. At 3:13, I was reading To Kill A Mockingbird, her favorite novel, out loud in her area at the clinic. We had laid the bed out flat and she had her head in my lap while I played with her hair and flipped through the worn novel.

"'It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.'" I read. Mom giggled a little and I looked down, smiling. Her laughter was infectious.

"What Momma?" I asked, brushing her bangs to the side so I could see the smiling face of my mother.

"It's just funny is all. Atticus is trying to teach his kids to be the right kind of brave, and here I am, a grown woman, relying on my 15 year old daughter to be the brave one. It's just funny." She replied.

"Oh Momma, it ain't like that." I said. "I'm not the brave one." She shook her head, flipping from her side to her back so she could look me square in the eye. 

"It is though. I don't know what I would be doing here without you, Sadie. You're my little rock." I smiled.

"You're mine too. Do you want me to keep going?" She nodded and kept her eyes fully on me as I went through, dictating the fate of the siblings in Maycomb County. I read for maybe five more minutes before Mom reached up and put a hand on my cheek. I finished the sentence and looked down.