The Fresh Smell of Dirt

Dear Mother,

This letter will be brief. I have very little to say to you, especially now. But I have a few small confessions to make, none of them you will like.

I have started to write this a million times and each time I crumple it up, burn it, and cry to myself for my weakness. But I cannot do that any more. I have to finally tell you before the pain eats me alive.

Did you ever stop to consider anyone else but yourself when you made your choices? Did you ever once think that perhaps I didn’t deserve to be raised following you all over the country, hiding in dark and smelly motels, eating leftover food from the bussing trays at nasty diners?

Did you have to constantly chop off my hair and dye it different colors? Why couldn’t you just give me away? Leave me on the doorstep of a church or fire station? My childhood was hell, and you made it so.

You made me terrified of my own shadow. You cursed me to never love, never trust, when you should have protected me, LOVED me, if you’re even capable of it.

I don’t regret running away from you at 16, packing everything I could carry; my tiny selection of dirty clothes, my postcards, and the last measly honey bun into a motel trash bag. I don’t regret taking that stack of wadded up cash that you kept hidden under your pillow; be mad at me for it but I will not apologize.

I grabbed a bus and picked a spot on the map that was as far away from you as possible. I walked into the nearest motel and paid for a month’s rent, asked where I could find work and I made myself a new name.

Didn't even know what a social security number was, didn’t have a birth certificate, but the sweet old couple that ran the local convenience store didn’t care. I worked my butt off, every day, homeschooled by my new parental figures by evening, for two hard years. I even managed to get a high school equivalency diploma. Do you know what I did with that?

Fought my way into the police academy. That’s right. Your precious, piece of shit daughter became a cop, top of her damn class.

After a couple years on the force, we had this group from the FBI host a seminar, bringing so much information on profiling and kidnapped or missing persons. At first I was enraptured by their visit, intrigued and fascinated. But after the third day, they flashed a few photos that made my blood run cold and my pen stopped mid sentence in my notebook.

The instructor noticed my face immediately but thankfully didn’t stop the lecture, only pulled me aside after the class ended. I sat across from that man, weeping, spilling my guts and the very next day I brought him my postcards. You’re probably wondering why I did that. Because each postcard had my notes, and a map, scribbled on the back of it, my reminder of my worthless punishments.

I remember the holes you made me dig in the middle of the night. The first one was when I was nine years old. I would dig for hours, in the dark, my tiny body shaking and shivering as you sat there with your bottle of cheap wine and hollered at me to go faster. I could never get farther than a few feet down, the worst place to dig was in Texas, with their 6 inches of soil and 1,000 feet of rock and stone. Did you ever bandage my blisters? At best you poured whatever alcohol you were drinking into my open wounds and told me not to cry out in pain.

I always wondered why I was being punished, and why this was the punishment but now I know and it makes me abhorrently sick to my stomach.

First confession: I know what you did and I’m going to stop you. I don’t know how hard you tried to hide it from me, but every time I see a fresh pile of dirt, the horror comes back in waves and the fear washes over my body like an icy cold North Dakota blizzard.

Second confession: I know WHAT you are. I know now why you would make me leave those motel rooms, make me stand outside, sometimes in the piercing cold. Do you know how many nights I fell asleep in someone’s unlocked car so I wouldn’t freeze to death?

This letter isn’t a threat, it’s not even a warning. It’s a promise.

It’s been ten years since I saw you but your image is burned into my brain. I have memorized every location that you made me dig a hole because I know now what you were doing. And you made me HELP you.

No more. Never again. The next time you see me, I’ll be holding a bright shiny pair of handcuffs. I’m coming for you mother; you’re not going to hurt anyone else ever again. You’re not going to destroy another life, not while I’m out here. I’m going to stop you.

My final confession? I hate the smell of dirt.

Signed,

I’m not going to sign this, you’ll find out my new name….very, very soon….