With Lila and my heart, that’s another story.
TWENTY-THREE
Bloody murder
REED
The first timeI saw a dead body, I realized I’d never be able to do this job without a way to distance myself from what I’d experience in the line of duty. And I desperately wanted to be in law enforcement.
I’ve always known what my career would be. Never once doubted it. As sure as the sun would rise in the morning, I was born to bust the bad guys.
One of my earliest memories was when I was about three or four years old. Although some of the details are fuzzy, I distinctly remember interrogating an older kid in my foster home. I got him to confess to stealing cash from theFun Fund, which was donated money our foster parents used to take us to the movies, buy toys, or order pizza. Shit like that. At that tender age, I was already hunting down clues and interviewing witnesses, bound and determined to deliver justice.
And I did.
For my efforts, my foster father gave me an extra bowl of ice cream and let me pick the movie. Based on my limited memories from that time, he was a good man. I can’t recall his name, but I’ll never forget how he looked at me that day. He was so proudof me for finding the money that his emotions spilled over, making me proud of myself as well. It was as if his pride was infectious.
I’d never experienced anything like it. That feeling of contentment and satisfaction that comes from deep down, permeating your entire sense of being. In that moment, you’re enough. It’s warm and peaceful.
And so damn rare for me.
I’ve been chasing that high ever since.
Got close a few times over the years. Yet it was never the same. Something has always been missing.
Each case I close.
Each accomplishment I achieve or goal I hit.
It’s never quite enough.
For many years, I wondered why I didn’t experience that type of pride. Why does thatrightnesselude me in my adult life when it came so freely as a child? Then I realized it’s because I was still whole back then. My spirit wasn’t broken yet. Things went downhill sharply the day my blood family was ripped apart, and I was sent to live in a new place.
Alone.
Who cares if you split up the brothers? As long as they have good homes, right?
Too bad that wasn’t the case for us.
The damage made me strong, though. Stubborn too. That’s why I was bound and determined to thrive in this profession regardless of the grim circumstances.
All I needed was a strategy. Something concrete to signal my brain that it was time to disconnect.
Eventually, I figured out how to do it.
A lifetime of pretending I don’t have feelings served me well in this regard. Essentially, I expanded on my natural instinctto close myself off. However, rather than blocking my emotions like I did growing up, I remove my feelings entirely.
They aren’t destroyed or muted, only set aside.
To do this, I visualize extracting all the vulnerable parts of myself from my physical body. As if an actual vapor cloud escapes my frame, hovering in the air until I return to collect it. All my emotions remain in that lingering swirl of mist, shielded from whatever horrors I’ll see.
Over the years, I’ve become so good at doing this that it only takes a couple of seconds to create that haven.
Like I need to do right now.
As soon as I exit the SUV, I briefly close my eyes. Within the span of two shallow breaths, I force a white mist to brush through me until it comes out the other side. When it does, it’s thicker and more viscous.
Is that my spirit or soul leaving me? I don’t know. It’s whatever lingers inside that makes us who we are, beyond the bones and blood.
