Where Is My Daughter?

Lab Rats

When Dorian shows up on my doorstep, I am not prepared. I had decided to spend the few minutes before he arrived gathering documents on the floor so he wouldn't stand on them or slip. The ground was a complete minefield, filled with slippery slopes that only I knew well enough to traverse. But, of course, this decision meant I had no time to work on my appearance.

So when Dorian opened the door, my bloodshot eyes, mussed hair, and casual clothing were what greeted him, and I immediately regretted not spending any time on my appearance. It certainly wouldn't instill confidence in my already-shaky mental competency. I was a mess, and I looked it. I hadn't brushed the curly nest atop my head in several weeks. My clothes had stains and holes speckled throughout. My only saving grace was that I at least didn't smell horrible because I had forced myself to shower the night before.

Dorian's raised eyebrows and thin lips spelled out his surprise. His glance to the floor riddled with paper behind me only heightened his concerned features.

I suppose I should have expected it. Dorian didn't know me on a personal level. There was a chance that, up until that point, Dorian had not yet realized just how obsessed I was. My entire world revolved around my daughter and getting her back.

Dorian cleared his throat, "Hi, Tia," he said.

I forced a smile that I hoped looked more genuine than it felt, "Hey. Umm... come in." I said, and I stepped aside. He entered with caution. The look on his face reminded me of someone walking into a room that they wish they had a hazmat suit for.

To my credit, my house was relatively clean. I kept it that way because I couldn't stand the grainy feel of dust on my hands or feet. I couldn't live in a dirty house. My apartment was far messier than it was gross, yet Dorian seemed just as shocked regardless. It felt as if he saw me after I opened that door for the first time, and I wasn't sure that I liked it. I preferred having a place all my own that nobody visited and nobody judged. I already missed that as I stood there with my arms protectively crossed. Once Dorian was inside, I closed the door.

"Tea? Coffee? Do you want anything? I don't have much in the, um, the kitchen, but...." I shrugged and let the rest of my sentence die in my mouth. I ushered him silently to the two armchairs I had removed the paperwork from before he arrived. They were the only surface in my house designed for sitting that didn't have documents strewn all over it. Just for this special occasion, of course.

Dorian took a seat and shook his head, "I had no idea. I mean, I knew you were committed but this- "He motioned with his hands, "Tia, how long has your apartment looked like this?"

I was offended. I knew my house wasn't the cleanest, honestly, but I didn't feel that Dorian had the right to come in and judge it. He got to go home to his family every night and forget about my case. He got to sleep on a bed that didn't crinkle when he tossed and turned. He had the luxury of forgetting about me from time to time on his days off. I didn't.

This was my life. I ate, slept, and breathed my CCS case. I would do it until the day I die if that's what it took to get the answers I needed. I would give anything to get her back, but even more to make sure she was happy. My temper flared.

Who was he to come in here and judge me? To somehow act as if he was better than me? He spoke to me like I was a deer, easily frightened by his bristly demeanor, but I was anything but. I knew what this looked like - how crazy I may have seemed to him and others around me. But this was what I had to do. I couldn't stand to do anything less. She occupied my thoughts in a way that wouldn't let me escape her, even when I closed my eyes at night. So years ago, I had decided to stop trying to silence it. Instead, I let her voice rule my thoughts.