Sophie
Sophie came alive in my head the other day, this poor, sweet mouse of a girl in a bad bad place. This is only the beginning....
Most nights found Sophie sleeping in the shelter of a garbage dumpster in some alley, trying to find refuge from the weather and the gangas and the other drunken homeless that would love to tear her apart. Sweet meat, they called her. Sweet meat, pinky, others more cruel. So she hid at night, and most time the rats didn’t bother her. But not this night, which was so bitter and harsh, with icy winds rpping down the streets and alleys. Sophie couldn’t go to one of the shelters. They always tried to put her in a home. But she didn’t have a home, and the other children were frightening, and the grown ups were always so mean, and so she would always run away again. At least she knew how to live on the streets.
She tried to sit awake in a laundromat, but she kept falling asleep and got thrown out by the angry Asian women. So she wandered, willing herself invisible like the strong, brave women in the old stories. Sophie wandered until she found an all-night coffee shop, but there were police cars in the parking lot, and she was afraid that they would try and take her away again. So quiet, scared Sophie sat on a stoop across from the coffee shop, pretending not to be there, sure that the police cars would leave soon. And maybe the man behind the counter would be nice and give her a hot chocolate again. So she waited and waited, and tried to be invisible.
Sweet, scared little Sophie watched and waited and pretended not to be there, huddling close against the wind and snow. She was so focused on the police cars, ready to scurry aross the street the moment they left, that she didn’t hear the men approach, though now she felt the burning hunger of their eyes.
There were four of them, older than she was but maybe not by much. Two of them sat beside her, the other two stood blocking the foot of the stairs and it was so quick that she was trapped. Poor, sweet Sophie was too terrifed to move and one put a hand on her thigh, another stroked her long, black hair, matted and greasy and filthy from months on the street. They whispered sweet, horrible things to her, offered to take her home, and part of her wanted to go with them, to be someplace warm and sleep in a real bed. She missed beds and pillows and heavy blankets and hot baths, and the thought was so tempting, but it couldn’t be safe, wouldn’t be so nice and good. It never was.
And then they were dragging her to her feet, laughing and saying rude things, and the other things in words she didn’t know. She had to get away, had to run, to hide, to stop being so scared. Sophie struggled, but they were too strong, their hands too tight around her arms, and Sophie screamed and screamed, wordlessly, a blood-curdling cry of terror, until a rough hand covered her mouth. The hand reeked of gasoline and cigarettes and other things, the smell made her want to throw up even though her wstomach was empty, and she bit the hand as hard as she could. The man jerked his hand away quickly, grunting loudly at the pain, and his grip loosened and Sophie fought.
Sophie kicked and punched and scratched and stomped at the four men, who were so startled by this sudden ferocity that she managed to slip past them and and she ran. Sophie ran as if she were the wind, as though flame licked her heels.
Her legs burned and ached at the stress, but quiet little Sophie kept on running, turning down the twisting maze of alleys and side streets, and she could hear the four men close behind her and suddenly she was afraid again, but not frozen. She turned sharply into the next alley and threw herself into a shadowed alcove and she crouched low, trying to quiet the burning of her lungs, the hammering of her heartbeat. Her pursuers were there then, they had caught up to her, and they were angry and having to chase her. She could see liquid red smears on the hand she’d bitten and she felt a swell of pride until one of them took out a mean-looking knife.
He prowled up and down the alley, cursing loudly and kicking at trashbags and dumpsters and Sophie was quiet and invisible, as perfectly still as a mouse hiding from a hungry tomcat. The men argued with each other until one kicked an empty glass bottle into her alcove, showering Sophie with cold, broken glass and one tiny, mewling whimper escaped her lips, and then they saw her through the shadows. The one with the knife laughed and sneered and lifted her from the ground and sweet, terrified, little Sophie closed her eyes and wished and hoped and prayed that she would be saved. And poor, sweet Sophie, who knew nothing of the Light, she cried out in the darkness. And then she was on the ground, on her back, scrambling backwards and out of the way of this new sudden chaos.
A man seemed to rise up out of a pool of shadow, almost made out of shadows himself, the only thing distinct about his features were brilliant blue eyes, the rest cloaked and obscured. He looked down at her only the once, and his eyes seemed to smile at her, and then he too was holding a knife. Only moments passed, and in those few moments the shadow man had cut down her tormentors, left them bleeding and dying on the ground. And Sophie knew about dying, understood it, had seen it, felt its touch. But this time, it felt pure and she was confused. The man, her savior, melted back into the shadows without a word, leaving Sophie alone except for the dying, and then blue lights flashed in the alleyway and a bright white light pointed directly at her, and Sophie couldn’t help but cry.
They were going to take her, she knew. They would take her when they saw her, but she wasn’t afraid now. Still such a quiet little mouse, but Sophie wasn’t afraid. She knew now how to be brave, and maybe even fierce, this newer Sophie. And then a man in a blue uniform was picking her up, and she looked at his face in the so very bright light and it seemed warm. She never knew that a man’s face could be like this, with concern soaking his sky colored eyes, and she almost felt safe.
*~*~*~*~*
Detective Owens stood in the cramped waiting room of Child and Family Services, with his ward, this strange little girl from the alley with the dead gang bangers, and wondered why he wasn’t getting more attention as a police officer, and sat down next to the girl. She sat calmly, dressed in a pink puffy coat, with a blue sweater, grey sweatpants and a pair of bright yellow rainboots, oblivious to it all, almost meditating. They were the only ones in the waiting room, and Owens didn’t want to skim through the magazines, since it seemed to invite only further boredom. Any attempt to converse with the girl, who couldn’t have been more than ten, were answered with silence, and Owens has begun thinking of her as Mouse. It was impressive, he thought, that she seemed mostly unshaken by the events of the night before, and at the same time, it was horrible that she was subjected to it at all. He nudged her gently, to get her attention, and she started slightly, edged back in the chair. “Mouse, are you thirsty? Do you want some water?”
She seemed to think about it for a moment, but then she nodded, so Owens got up and crossed over to the water cooler, the kind that occasionally burped loudly and had the conical paper cups that you couldn’t put down, but were too awkward to hold for an adult, and filled two cups with water. He had barely turned away and Mouse had swallowed the entire cup in a mouthful, so he handed the second cup to her, watched as she nearly breathed it in, then sat playing with the cups as if they were a lost relic from some lost civilization. Owens rested an ankle on a knee and tried to get as comfortable as possible in the too small hard plastic chairs, and then the DCFS agent opened the door to the waiting room and beckoned them forward.
Owens rose from the too small chair, reached a hand out invitingly towards Mouse, and to his surprise, a very small hand fit neatly into his own and they both walked into the office. The nameplate on the desk identified her as Rose Brown, and her face was that of a stern, world-wearied, middle-aged white woman. She wore a prim, conservative grey suit with a conservative white blouse and a conservative and neutral expression. They shook hands, introduced themselves. The chairs were slightly more comfortable than in the waiting room, but only slightly, and yet again he watched as Mouse settled herself in one spot, perfectly still though still holding the water cones reverently. Owens looked to Agent Brown, watched her take out a thick brown folder, open it to the first page. “We managed to get a match on our girl’s fingerprints, the ones you sent over last night, and she’s definitely in the system.”
He couldn’t bring himself to be surprised by that, looking at her. She didn’t have the quivering fright of the new ones, the ones still fresh from the trauma. Sorrow turned over inside of him, anger at how something so precious could be forgotten with such abandon. “Its true, isn’t it Mouse?”
She only looked at him with large, soft and dark green eyes, and didn’t make a sound, and she blinked, but he wasn’t sure if it was in agreement or not, so he turned back to the agent. “So who is our Mouse, then?”
The agent cleared her throat and put on a pair of thick reading glasses, and she began to read from the file. She also did not seem amused by his calling her Mouse. “Martell, Sophie, age 10. It looks as if she has been in and out of group homes for the last six years, the only information about her parents is that they were deceased when she was brought into the system.”
Owens looked at her, trying to see a Sophie inside of her, but all he could find was Mouse. Still, at least she had a past, that maybe there was something deep inside of her. She was contemplating the fiber of the carpet, as if intently ignoring the conversation around her. He was afraid of the answer, but he had to ask anyways. “When was she last in a home?”
Agent Brown gave him a glare that could almost be reproachful, as if it were offensive to even ask of such a thing, though she answered him anyway. “Just under six months, but that’s only when she was reported missing. This one runs away from the group homes, longest she’s stayed in one at any given time has been a month, and as little as a week. Never has any problems, just one day disappears. This is the longest she’s managed to evade us.”
Evade us. The phrase rung around his ears, buzzed like a tiny insect. Evade us. As if Mouse were just that, some kind of pest to be caught, kept and tagged. She was just another case number and it made him sad, but sometimes the system worked. All he could do was hope. Part of him wanted to take her himself, care for her. An urge rising inside of him, a feeling that she would need him, that he needed her. But duty and obligation kept him from saying anything, he would let her pass on. “How long until she gets taken to a group home?”
The agent tucked the file away into her briefcase. “I’m leaving the office now, I’ll take her over when I go. Its easier to start this as soon as possible. And this one is a special case.”
So now Mouse would go to a group home, and then maybe to a foster family, maybe even get adopted. Or maybe she would run away again, maybe she would be dead next time. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, forced himself to smile at Mouse. “Make sure they watch her, that they take care of her.”
The agent looked reproachful again. “As a ward of the State, we will look after her to the best of our abilities. She’ll be in a special home this time, one for especially troubled children. After what she saw last night, I think it is only proper.”
Proper. Ward of the State. As if this woman was so cold, as if she had no maternal feelings of her own. The poor, jaded soul, trapped in a purgatory of paperwork. Owens wondered if she’d cared at first, when she was younger. He followed them out of the office, noticed that Mouse, that Sophie, wouldn’t take Agent Brown’s hand, that she looked up at him and he saw a hint of sadness in her eyes, mingling with something else. “Can you give me the address of the group home? I’ll take her over there myself, I’m off duty.”
With a look somewhere between perturbed and exasperated, the agent agreed and wrote it down for him. “They’ll be expecting her, and I’ll call to let them know that she’ll be receiving a police escort. Just make sure that you get there quickly.”
He thanked her, and offered Mouse his hand, led her to the elevator, let her ride in the front seat of the car. On the way to the home he stopped at a fast food restaurant, bought her a hamburger and fries, and a large cup of soda, which she devoured quickly yet daintily, as if she was trying to prove what a lady she was while still soothe her hunger. What a curiosity she was, this Sophie-Mouse. Even with how long she’d been on the streets, how long she’d been forced to survive, she didn’t even seem feral or wild. Certainly not trusting, but not uncontrolled. Such a rare thing to find, which made her even more precious to him.
And then they were pulling up to the group home, and Sophie-Mouse seemed unwilling to leave the car at first, but she did, and they walked hand in hand up the steps of the three story brownstone building at the edge of the city. Owens knocked on the door, pangs in his heart telling him to keep her, to take her home himself, and the guardians in the group home opened the door, a man and a woman in their early forties, pleasant in appearance and demeanor. He extended a hand to the man. “Detective Richard Owens, pleased to meet you. I thought I’d run Sophie here over myself. She’s a special one.”
The man’s handshake was firm, but submissive, and from the way the woman carried herself, she was the head of the household. Owens smiled at her, Sophie-Mouse clinging to his leg, her eyes pleading with him. She didn’t want to be here, but neither of them had a choice. He crouched down so that they were eye level, he took his hands in hers. “It’ll be okay, Mouse. They’ll take care of you here, you’ll be safe.”
Mouse sniffled softly, holding back as a single tear rolled down her cheek and she looked as if she would speak, and then nothing. Oh so quietly she disappeared behind the man and the woman, who assured Owens that they would take special care of her, that it was their joy and their passion, and that they had a lot of experience helping girls like Sophie. They called her Sophie, she would never be Mouse to them, and part of him wanted it that way.
Owens turned, went back to the unmarked brown squad car that he drove, and sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, staring at the building. He vowed to visit her, to check in on her as often as he could. And in that moment, trapped between remorse and determination, he did something that he hadn’t done in a very long time. He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out an old, stale pack of Winstons, and he lit a cigarette. He inhaled the stale, dry smoke, tasted the bitter ashiness of it, and he wept.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Most nights found Sophie sleeping in the shelter of a garbage dumpster in some alley, trying to find refuge from the weather and the gangas and the other drunken homeless that would love to tear her apart. Sweet meat, they called her. Sweet meat, pinky, others more cruel. So she hid at night, and most time the rats didn’t bother her. But not this night, which was so bitter and harsh, with icy winds rpping down the streets and alleys. Sophie couldn’t go to one of the shelters. They always tried to put her in a home. But she didn’t have a home, and the other children were frightening, and the grown ups were always so mean, and so she would always run away again. At least she knew how to live on the streets.
She tried to sit awake in a laundromat, but she kept falling asleep and got thrown out by the angry Asian women. So she wandered, willing herself invisible like the strong, brave women in the old stories. Sophie wandered until she found an all-night coffee shop, but there were police cars in the parking lot, and she was afraid that they would try and take her away again. So quiet, scared Sophie sat on a stoop across from the coffee shop, pretending not to be there, sure that the police cars would leave soon. And maybe the man behind the counter would be nice and give her a hot chocolate again. So she waited and waited, and tried to be invisible.
Sweet, scared little Sophie watched and waited and pretended not to be there, huddling close against the wind and snow. She was so focused on the police cars, ready to scurry aross the street the moment they left, that she didn’t hear the men approach, though now she felt the burning hunger of their eyes.
There were four of them, older than she was but maybe not by much. Two of them sat beside her, the other two stood blocking the foot of the stairs and it was so quick that she was trapped. Poor, sweet Sophie was too terrifed to move and one put a hand on her thigh, another stroked her long, black hair, matted and greasy and filthy from months on the street. They whispered sweet, horrible things to her, offered to take her home, and part of her wanted to go with them, to be someplace warm and sleep in a real bed. She missed beds and pillows and heavy blankets and hot baths, and the thought was so tempting, but it couldn’t be safe, wouldn’t be so nice and good. It never was.
And then they were dragging her to her feet, laughing and saying rude things, and the other things in words she didn’t know. She had to get away, had to run, to hide, to stop being so scared. Sophie struggled, but they were too strong, their hands too tight around her arms, and Sophie screamed and screamed, wordlessly, a blood-curdling cry of terror, until a rough hand covered her mouth. The hand reeked of gasoline and cigarettes and other things, the smell made her want to throw up even though her wstomach was empty, and she bit the hand as hard as she could. The man jerked his hand away quickly, grunting loudly at the pain, and his grip loosened and Sophie fought.
Sophie kicked and punched and scratched and stomped at the four men, who were so startled by this sudden ferocity that she managed to slip past them and and she ran. Sophie ran as if she were the wind, as though flame licked her heels.
Her legs burned and ached at the stress, but quiet little Sophie kept on running, turning down the twisting maze of alleys and side streets, and she could hear the four men close behind her and suddenly she was afraid again, but not frozen. She turned sharply into the next alley and threw herself into a shadowed alcove and she crouched low, trying to quiet the burning of her lungs, the hammering of her heartbeat. Her pursuers were there then, they had caught up to her, and they were angry and having to chase her. She could see liquid red smears on the hand she’d bitten and she felt a swell of pride until one of them took out a mean-looking knife.
He prowled up and down the alley, cursing loudly and kicking at trashbags and dumpsters and Sophie was quiet and invisible, as perfectly still as a mouse hiding from a hungry tomcat. The men argued with each other until one kicked an empty glass bottle into her alcove, showering Sophie with cold, broken glass and one tiny, mewling whimper escaped her lips, and then they saw her through the shadows. The one with the knife laughed and sneered and lifted her from the ground and sweet, terrified, little Sophie closed her eyes and wished and hoped and prayed that she would be saved. And poor, sweet Sophie, who knew nothing of the Light, she cried out in the darkness. And then she was on the ground, on her back, scrambling backwards and out of the way of this new sudden chaos.
A man seemed to rise up out of a pool of shadow, almost made out of shadows himself, the only thing distinct about his features were brilliant blue eyes, the rest cloaked and obscured. He looked down at her only the once, and his eyes seemed to smile at her, and then he too was holding a knife. Only moments passed, and in those few moments the shadow man had cut down her tormentors, left them bleeding and dying on the ground. And Sophie knew about dying, understood it, had seen it, felt its touch. But this time, it felt pure and she was confused. The man, her savior, melted back into the shadows without a word, leaving Sophie alone except for the dying, and then blue lights flashed in the alleyway and a bright white light pointed directly at her, and Sophie couldn’t help but cry.
They were going to take her, she knew. They would take her when they saw her, but she wasn’t afraid now. Still such a quiet little mouse, but Sophie wasn’t afraid. She knew now how to be brave, and maybe even fierce, this newer Sophie. And then a man in a blue uniform was picking her up, and she looked at his face in the so very bright light and it seemed warm. She never knew that a man’s face could be like this, with concern soaking his sky colored eyes, and she almost felt safe.
*~*~*~*~*
Detective Owens stood in the cramped waiting room of Child and Family Services, with his ward, this strange little girl from the alley with the dead gang bangers, and wondered why he wasn’t getting more attention as a police officer, and sat down next to the girl. She sat calmly, dressed in a pink puffy coat, with a blue sweater, grey sweatpants and a pair of bright yellow rainboots, oblivious to it all, almost meditating. They were the only ones in the waiting room, and Owens didn’t want to skim through the magazines, since it seemed to invite only further boredom. Any attempt to converse with the girl, who couldn’t have been more than ten, were answered with silence, and Owens has begun thinking of her as Mouse. It was impressive, he thought, that she seemed mostly unshaken by the events of the night before, and at the same time, it was horrible that she was subjected to it at all. He nudged her gently, to get her attention, and she started slightly, edged back in the chair. “Mouse, are you thirsty? Do you want some water?”
She seemed to think about it for a moment, but then she nodded, so Owens got up and crossed over to the water cooler, the kind that occasionally burped loudly and had the conical paper cups that you couldn’t put down, but were too awkward to hold for an adult, and filled two cups with water. He had barely turned away and Mouse had swallowed the entire cup in a mouthful, so he handed the second cup to her, watched as she nearly breathed it in, then sat playing with the cups as if they were a lost relic from some lost civilization. Owens rested an ankle on a knee and tried to get as comfortable as possible in the too small hard plastic chairs, and then the DCFS agent opened the door to the waiting room and beckoned them forward.
Owens rose from the too small chair, reached a hand out invitingly towards Mouse, and to his surprise, a very small hand fit neatly into his own and they both walked into the office. The nameplate on the desk identified her as Rose Brown, and her face was that of a stern, world-wearied, middle-aged white woman. She wore a prim, conservative grey suit with a conservative white blouse and a conservative and neutral expression. They shook hands, introduced themselves. The chairs were slightly more comfortable than in the waiting room, but only slightly, and yet again he watched as Mouse settled herself in one spot, perfectly still though still holding the water cones reverently. Owens looked to Agent Brown, watched her take out a thick brown folder, open it to the first page. “We managed to get a match on our girl’s fingerprints, the ones you sent over last night, and she’s definitely in the system.”
He couldn’t bring himself to be surprised by that, looking at her. She didn’t have the quivering fright of the new ones, the ones still fresh from the trauma. Sorrow turned over inside of him, anger at how something so precious could be forgotten with such abandon. “Its true, isn’t it Mouse?”
She only looked at him with large, soft and dark green eyes, and didn’t make a sound, and she blinked, but he wasn’t sure if it was in agreement or not, so he turned back to the agent. “So who is our Mouse, then?”
The agent cleared her throat and put on a pair of thick reading glasses, and she began to read from the file. She also did not seem amused by his calling her Mouse. “Martell, Sophie, age 10. It looks as if she has been in and out of group homes for the last six years, the only information about her parents is that they were deceased when she was brought into the system.”
Owens looked at her, trying to see a Sophie inside of her, but all he could find was Mouse. Still, at least she had a past, that maybe there was something deep inside of her. She was contemplating the fiber of the carpet, as if intently ignoring the conversation around her. He was afraid of the answer, but he had to ask anyways. “When was she last in a home?”
Agent Brown gave him a glare that could almost be reproachful, as if it were offensive to even ask of such a thing, though she answered him anyway. “Just under six months, but that’s only when she was reported missing. This one runs away from the group homes, longest she’s stayed in one at any given time has been a month, and as little as a week. Never has any problems, just one day disappears. This is the longest she’s managed to evade us.”
Evade us. The phrase rung around his ears, buzzed like a tiny insect. Evade us. As if Mouse were just that, some kind of pest to be caught, kept and tagged. She was just another case number and it made him sad, but sometimes the system worked. All he could do was hope. Part of him wanted to take her himself, care for her. An urge rising inside of him, a feeling that she would need him, that he needed her. But duty and obligation kept him from saying anything, he would let her pass on. “How long until she gets taken to a group home?”
The agent tucked the file away into her briefcase. “I’m leaving the office now, I’ll take her over when I go. Its easier to start this as soon as possible. And this one is a special case.”
So now Mouse would go to a group home, and then maybe to a foster family, maybe even get adopted. Or maybe she would run away again, maybe she would be dead next time. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, forced himself to smile at Mouse. “Make sure they watch her, that they take care of her.”
The agent looked reproachful again. “As a ward of the State, we will look after her to the best of our abilities. She’ll be in a special home this time, one for especially troubled children. After what she saw last night, I think it is only proper.”
Proper. Ward of the State. As if this woman was so cold, as if she had no maternal feelings of her own. The poor, jaded soul, trapped in a purgatory of paperwork. Owens wondered if she’d cared at first, when she was younger. He followed them out of the office, noticed that Mouse, that Sophie, wouldn’t take Agent Brown’s hand, that she looked up at him and he saw a hint of sadness in her eyes, mingling with something else. “Can you give me the address of the group home? I’ll take her over there myself, I’m off duty.”
With a look somewhere between perturbed and exasperated, the agent agreed and wrote it down for him. “They’ll be expecting her, and I’ll call to let them know that she’ll be receiving a police escort. Just make sure that you get there quickly.”
He thanked her, and offered Mouse his hand, led her to the elevator, let her ride in the front seat of the car. On the way to the home he stopped at a fast food restaurant, bought her a hamburger and fries, and a large cup of soda, which she devoured quickly yet daintily, as if she was trying to prove what a lady she was while still soothe her hunger. What a curiosity she was, this Sophie-Mouse. Even with how long she’d been on the streets, how long she’d been forced to survive, she didn’t even seem feral or wild. Certainly not trusting, but not uncontrolled. Such a rare thing to find, which made her even more precious to him.
And then they were pulling up to the group home, and Sophie-Mouse seemed unwilling to leave the car at first, but she did, and they walked hand in hand up the steps of the three story brownstone building at the edge of the city. Owens knocked on the door, pangs in his heart telling him to keep her, to take her home himself, and the guardians in the group home opened the door, a man and a woman in their early forties, pleasant in appearance and demeanor. He extended a hand to the man. “Detective Richard Owens, pleased to meet you. I thought I’d run Sophie here over myself. She’s a special one.”
The man’s handshake was firm, but submissive, and from the way the woman carried herself, she was the head of the household. Owens smiled at her, Sophie-Mouse clinging to his leg, her eyes pleading with him. She didn’t want to be here, but neither of them had a choice. He crouched down so that they were eye level, he took his hands in hers. “It’ll be okay, Mouse. They’ll take care of you here, you’ll be safe.”
Mouse sniffled softly, holding back as a single tear rolled down her cheek and she looked as if she would speak, and then nothing. Oh so quietly she disappeared behind the man and the woman, who assured Owens that they would take special care of her, that it was their joy and their passion, and that they had a lot of experience helping girls like Sophie. They called her Sophie, she would never be Mouse to them, and part of him wanted it that way.
Owens turned, went back to the unmarked brown squad car that he drove, and sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, staring at the building. He vowed to visit her, to check in on her as often as he could. And in that moment, trapped between remorse and determination, he did something that he hadn’t done in a very long time. He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out an old, stale pack of Winstons, and he lit a cigarette. He inhaled the stale, dry smoke, tasted the bitter ashiness of it, and he wept.
*~*~*~*~*~*