The Big Show: Soft, Lovely, Gentle, Kind.
Murphy needs to be touched. Not sex. She’s not looking for sex. She’s looking for a touch, a hug would be good, someone to hold her would be better. The case was ugly, the kind that made her believe in monsters. The kind that makes her question every choice she’s made. Should she have been a cop? Should she have spent so much time at work and ruined her marriage? Should she have fought harder for custody? It’s rare that a case would shake her that badly, but she’s off step as she finishes the final piece of paperwork. She could hang around the office. With its noise she’d be able to ignore the nagging need to be touched, but the office isn’t what she wants, what she needs.
She leaves work, trailed by a need she hates having. It’s her childhood, coming back to haunt her. When her mom was around, Murphy never had this need for human contact. Her mother always hugged her, always ran a hand through her hair, always wiped the tears from her cheeks. When her mother was around, Murphy had human contact in spades. Then her mother left, and she was alone. That was when the need started. Her source of comfort had up and left her and she started to need her Grandma Murphy to hug her. Grandma Murphy had kept the need at bay, but when she went to the hospice, Murphy was on her own and the need drove her to dating. It wasn’t like she could get the contact from her dad.
As she gets into her car, she thinks back to previous boyfriends. All of them had been good for satisfying her need for contact, but there was always the expectation of sex. It wasn’t like she didn’t like sex, it just wasn’t what she needed sometimes. She needs the reminder of her mother’s affection or her grandma’s love. It’s not complicated, not really, but it sort of disturbs Murphy that even after all these years she still has that childish need for simple affection. She’s a full grown woman, a mother, shouldn’t she know how to cope with life on her own by now?
She wishes her relationship with her ex-husband was better as she drives towards her house. If it was, she could show up at his door and ask to spend time with her daughter without having to answer hundreds of questions and getting chased out after three minutes. Her ex, who’s very smug about his full custody, doesn’t like it when she shows up unexpectedly. She doesn’t want to tell him that all she wants is to spend an hour, maybe more, with her daughter in her arms, talking. Her daughter, for a long time, killed any need she had for human contact. She had a daughter, suddenly her only need was to make sure her baby girl got all the human contact she could stand and more. After losing Anna, Murphy’s need for contact resurfaced and sometimes it’s only her daughter who can meet that need.
She loses herself for a moment, imagining sitting on her couch with Anna in her lap, her head under her chin simply listening to all the problems of a nine-year-old while Murphy ran her fingers through Anna’s hair. She can feel Anna’s hair, soft, lovely, sliding through her fingers as she listens to a simple, gentle, kind world. The illusion falls away when someone blares a horn at her. She’s been sitting at a green light. Slightly embarrassed she goes back to reality and gets herself home. She hates these nights. She can’t see Anna, there’s no boyfriend she can go see, and no family she can run to. She’s trailed by the ghosts of the victims and needs the warm skin of someone else to chase it away. So, since she can’t get warmth, she goes with cold.
As soon as she’s home, she changes into sweats, laces up her Nikes and runs. It’s something like 23 degrees outside and the weatherman says 40 percent change of snow, but Murphy doesn’t care. She straps her clutch piece to her ankle, stuffs her hands in gloves, a hat on her head and runs. She can’t chase away the ghosts with touch, can’t satisfy that need, so she runs from both. When she hits her stride, drops into that rhythm, she doesn’t feel the need to be touched, she just needs to keep running.
She leaves work, trailed by a need she hates having. It’s her childhood, coming back to haunt her. When her mom was around, Murphy never had this need for human contact. Her mother always hugged her, always ran a hand through her hair, always wiped the tears from her cheeks. When her mother was around, Murphy had human contact in spades. Then her mother left, and she was alone. That was when the need started. Her source of comfort had up and left her and she started to need her Grandma Murphy to hug her. Grandma Murphy had kept the need at bay, but when she went to the hospice, Murphy was on her own and the need drove her to dating. It wasn’t like she could get the contact from her dad.
As she gets into her car, she thinks back to previous boyfriends. All of them had been good for satisfying her need for contact, but there was always the expectation of sex. It wasn’t like she didn’t like sex, it just wasn’t what she needed sometimes. She needs the reminder of her mother’s affection or her grandma’s love. It’s not complicated, not really, but it sort of disturbs Murphy that even after all these years she still has that childish need for simple affection. She’s a full grown woman, a mother, shouldn’t she know how to cope with life on her own by now?
She wishes her relationship with her ex-husband was better as she drives towards her house. If it was, she could show up at his door and ask to spend time with her daughter without having to answer hundreds of questions and getting chased out after three minutes. Her ex, who’s very smug about his full custody, doesn’t like it when she shows up unexpectedly. She doesn’t want to tell him that all she wants is to spend an hour, maybe more, with her daughter in her arms, talking. Her daughter, for a long time, killed any need she had for human contact. She had a daughter, suddenly her only need was to make sure her baby girl got all the human contact she could stand and more. After losing Anna, Murphy’s need for contact resurfaced and sometimes it’s only her daughter who can meet that need.
She loses herself for a moment, imagining sitting on her couch with Anna in her lap, her head under her chin simply listening to all the problems of a nine-year-old while Murphy ran her fingers through Anna’s hair. She can feel Anna’s hair, soft, lovely, sliding through her fingers as she listens to a simple, gentle, kind world. The illusion falls away when someone blares a horn at her. She’s been sitting at a green light. Slightly embarrassed she goes back to reality and gets herself home. She hates these nights. She can’t see Anna, there’s no boyfriend she can go see, and no family she can run to. She’s trailed by the ghosts of the victims and needs the warm skin of someone else to chase it away. So, since she can’t get warmth, she goes with cold.
As soon as she’s home, she changes into sweats, laces up her Nikes and runs. It’s something like 23 degrees outside and the weatherman says 40 percent change of snow, but Murphy doesn’t care. She straps her clutch piece to her ankle, stuffs her hands in gloves, a hat on her head and runs. She can’t chase away the ghosts with touch, can’t satisfy that need, so she runs from both. When she hits her stride, drops into that rhythm, she doesn’t feel the need to be touched, she just needs to keep running.