6:23 p.m. Nantasket Ave. caller reports she is the plaintiff in a restraining order; defendant keeps driving by her house. Caller is coming to HQ, where she spoke to O/Mahoney and filled out a voluntary statement. O/Mahoney reports this is a 209A violation.

I was invited to go to where the hope came from, a foreign country.  I was in so much pain I went, not knowing the sounds, the feel of it.  The tight little country was the same place Torri and I had decided to go the summer of 2006.  Its differences were my salve.  There was hope.

When I arrived off the flight, the hope was given to me in the form of this shiny, silver rose. I brought the rose back and after it sat on the dashboard of my car, I put it where it belonged of course.  At The Hill.  It has never rusted, tarnished, or broken.  No one has ever taken it.  All the private expressions and predicaments of my pain there, and still, it always caught my eye.  Because it was always reflecting light.  Even in the snow, the darkness, it stuck out.

The past few months her death has kept happening.  New information, new ways to feel it.  Then, this week Torri’s laptop died.  The object I would take away when she was not listening.  It was her pride.  THE APPLE.  Mom only knew PC’s.  The dirt and crumbs remained wedged in between its white Apple keys.  I did not anticipate how its death would do me in.  I have not been to The Hill for a while.

I went tonight.  The Hope Deliverer had come and taken it away.  The rose was gone too, along with some other things left there by the same delivery person.  Its stem was closest to where she was when she was whole.  I always used to think of that. 

Hope wanted its revenge.  Hope wanted the one whose heart cracked, to regret her belief in Hope.

The hand that ripped the hope out of the sacred ground delivered nothing I guess.  It was me, us.  Because I could not tell you how to go about taking away hope from the small spot of earth where a dead child’s body rests in peace.

“He will choose you, disarm you with his words, and control you with his presence. He will delight you with his wit and his plans. He will show you a good time, but you will always get the bill. He will smile and deceive you, and he will scare you with his eyes. And when he is through with you, and he will be through with you, he will desert you and take with him your innocence and your pride. You will be left much sadder but not a lot wiser, and for a long time you will wonder what happened and what you did wrong. And if another of his kind comes knocking at your door, will you open it?”

world of survival.  Psychopaths are remarkable adept at crafting words,

or even lifting them from other places and then taking them as their own.

Playing on one’s weakest places and filling them in with pretty looking sludge.

“Be sure that I am holding you.

I am holding your pain too.

I am holding Torri too, along with you. 

And together, you and I, we tell her

that we love her,

that she has worked miracles for ‘us’.

She cannot be taken away from us

even though I do not have kinship with her.

Please keep telling her that you love her,

that we love her,

for the gift she entrusted from heaven…” 

written by a neophyte psychopath