I lay in bed this morning, awake as I have been for the past four hours. I can’t sleep, I’m too nervous. Court is today. I can’t really believe it, after two years of pain and nerve wracking waiting, the day I’ve hoped for, dreaded and hated is finally here. Court. I shiver as the word runs through my mind. It’s 5:45 Wednesday morning, May seventeenth, two thousand and five. In three hours I’ll be missing my state history exam. I’ll be in court. I have to make it up. I hope I do well. It’s fifteen percent of my grade… I guess it depends on court.

The benches, the judges chair, where I will sit, the jury boxes, the defendants chair…where he will sit. I shake my head…I can’t hardly remember what he looks like. I live with my grandparents, they took me in when I was 3 months old, when my father left me on their doorstep. He had called before, telling my grandmother “If you want her, come and get her.”

My grandmother couldn’t because she couldn’t drive. She never has been able to. She was born in 1929, and never saw a reason for it. My grandfather wasn’t at home to go and pick me up, so he just dropped me off at his mothers. When all the red tape was done and she had legal custody of me, she went ahead and got custody of my brother too. I was 1 year old then. My brother was 5. For years, everything was fine…until I was nine. Then it started.

Now, I’m seventeen years old. I’m short, blonde, a nerd. An introvert. Abused. No one but my family and my best friend, Alex knows that I attend group meetings every week for girls just like me. I’d like to keep it that way. My alarm goes off right next to my head. I reach out one arm to turn it off. My door opens, and my grandmother pokes her head in. “Max, time to get up. It’s six o’clock. You’ve got to get ready, eat breakfast. We’ve got a rough day ahead of us. Don’t worry about making the bed, I’ll take care of it.” She gives me a sympathetic look, the one that always looks like she’s hurting and about to cry. She’s trying to make it easy on me. I don’t care. She tells me breakfast is ready. I can’t even think about eating.

I wonder around in a walled haze. I’ve psyched myself up for this. Court. I don’t dare get my hopes up. He will get off, no matter what I do. I will not get my hopes up. No emotions must show. I must be strong. I have to go to court, I have to testify. I have to be strong. I will not, must not cry. I will not get my hopes up. You are a soldier, pain is our friend. You will not cry.

The mantra runs in my head. This is how I psych myself up. Lowering myself, maintaining it, holding the pain inside. When I gets to be too much, as it always does, I get my pen and paper, and I write. Only occasionally, have I cut myself, and only after introduced by a friend who was a SI herself. I did it only 5 times. Five cuts. No relief for me. I get a shower, turning the water as hot as it will go. I don’t touch the cold water spigot. I wash my hair, scrub my skin. Step out, dry off. The mantra runs in my head.

For a moment, I brace myself against the wall, flinching when the tile touches my hot skin. Wrapping the towel around me, I step to my room, a short walk, only two steps. I grab my robe, wrapping it around, cinching the waist tightly. To the other bathroom, where my hair dryer, make-up and everything is.

I blow my hair dry, the mantra running even louder in my head. A little makeup, clear lip gloss. No jewelry. Ankle length pumpkin dress buttoned to my throat. Hair pulled halfway up. Contacts in. I examine my appearance, and sigh. I have been told I am beautiful, but I have never seen it. Plain, yes, beautiful, no.

As ready as I will ever be, I exit the bathroom, into the laundry room, and out to the dining room. My Uncle and Aunt sit at the table eating the breakfast my grandmother has cooked. Let me clarify. My Uncle and Aunt are not married to each other. My aunt Debbie is the half-sister to my father, Gary, now deceased. My Uncle Doug is the husband of my Aunt Chris, real sister to my father. My mother isn’t dead, but in my opinion should be, to do the world a favor. She’s a drug addict, an alcoholic, a bum. She deserves hell, and hell deserves her.

I pick a seat next to my uncle, the only male in the room I’m comfortable with. He puts his arm around me, and I resist the urge to put my head on his shoulder. No weakness. He’s retired now, but he used to be a parole officer. He was in court almost every day. He’s tried to prepare me a little bit, but when it gets down to it, nothing can. He understands me, more than anyone else I think, and as much as someone who hasn’t experience it, knows the hell I went through. He has interviewed people like me like me. Plaintiffs, victims. Whatever you want to call them, I wish I was neither.

“Whatcha up to, kid? You okay?” I give him a look that speaks for me. He looks away. “You’ll be alright. Trust me,” he says and gives my shoulder a little squeeze. It’s a joke. He knows I don’t really trust him, and never will.

Time passes rapidly, too rapidly. Before I know it, I’m on my way to the courthouse in my aunts car. My grandmother rides with my uncle. He might have to leave before court is over, so he’s driving his own vehicle.

We pull in, early, as always. In the south your not on time unless your thirty minutes early. We all step out, straighten clothes, ties, hair. I square my shoulders and look up, I refuse to walk in looking beaten.

We walk up the stairs and open the door. We have started down the hall when a lady comes to meet us. Jolene, she’s the lady I met last night, when I met my lawyer for the first time. She’s her assistant. They wanted to get me used to the court room. The lawyer with my case was ------ ----- the assistant district attorney. She specialized in cases like mine. Robin McDune was the lady who had taken my taped disclosure for court, over two years ago. We were led to a tiny room that used to be the concession stand when court proceedings were open to the public. I hate the room. There’s only one entrance, its cluttered, with no place to hide, my whole family barely fits, and to beat it all its neon blue, which hurts my eyes. I’ll have a headache before I walk out.

We wait, and as I find out, that’s mostly what I’ll be doing, except for when I testify. They had told me to bring something to read. I hadn’t. My Aunt did, I’ll sneak it from her, when she goes in. The DA told us my grandmother, my aunt, and I would have to testify. We had all received subpoenas, twice because they had postponed the trial date. My uncle had came because over the past two years he had been the one I could talk to, explain my feelings to when I allowed them, and he was the only one that didn’t avoid the topic.

Jolene notices my scrutiny of the room, and states “We knew you’d hate it, but it’s the only room available. Stay in here, and don’t come past the door. Session will start soon. Judge Stone will start polling the jury, and that will take a while. I doubt you’ll listen, but just try to relax. You’ll be fine. Tell Mary here if you need anything.” She leaves, to get ready, it think.

Mary is a large lady standing at the door, blocking any of us from leaving. A guard. It seems incongruous to me because the courthouse has almost no security, no metal detectors, no guards. They even let you take your purses in the courtroom. The lack of security worries me, but I put it out my mind.

I have other things to worry about.