What Little Girls Are Made Of (eBook)

PROLOGUE

March 17, 2005

“I know it’s wrong. I do know. There’s this overwhelming urge and I can’t control it. I do, though, control it. I have done on many, many occasions. It’s like the urge is always, always there and I fight it daily and hold it down. I even feel proud of myself, and then it comes roaring out; it takes me over. It’s a sickness; people see me as a monster. I disgust people. I disgust myself. I try to imagine my life without this sickness, and I can’t. I just can’t.” His voice drifted off, still searching for words that he felt would be effective enough but failing.

His eyes flicked between the austere woman and the obedient nodding older man sitting across from him, searching their eyes for some sort of reaction. There was none. He felt the distance between them, a gulf. He wanted to get closer, not so much to look into their eyes, but so that they could see into his, see his true desperation. It was clear to him that she was the leader, the drill sergeant, and he was the follower, the weaker of the two.

The woman carefully made her notes. Pausing, she cleared her throat. “So, this sickness, as you describe it, is not your fault?”

“No. It isn’t. I don’t want to feel this way, I don’t want to hurt or ki... anyone. I can’t help it.” He shrugged his shoulders in supplication.

The follower interjected, never once looking in his direction, “So, who is responsible? Who should take the blame?” The follower’s lack of interest in his answers was clear. Their questions were simply a formality.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He was confused somewhat by the follower’s hollow tone, not the question.

“Mr. Mademan, if this sickness is not your fault, whose fault is it?” The question flew out of the woman’s mouth and landed before him like a discarded handkerchief, sticky with unapologetic sarcasm.

Again, he shrugged his shoulders, unable to meet her stony gaze. She glanced up from her notes, ran a scathing eye over him, returned to her notes, and awaited his response. He shifted around in his seat, ran his hands through his hair, and peered up at her from lowered eyes.

“I’ve been doing a lot of reading. Nothing else in this hellhole to do. I read up about addiction. It’s like an addiction to food, alcohol, or drugs. You have good days and bad days, but when those bad days come along, they ruin everything.” His voice was almost lighthearted, a shift of focus hoping for some type of redemption. His eyes pleaded with them to understand, to show some sympathy. His desperation was almost tangible: he clung on to, his only life raft.

“So, you believe that raping, molesting, and murdering children is the same as stuffing your face with food when you’re not hungry or consuming so much alcohol that you urinate on yourself and can’t remember what’s happened? Or sticking a needle in your veins?” She stomped on his fingers and pushed him out to sea.

Stefan knew how ridiculous his pitiful attempt at trying to justify his actions sounded, and not being one to accept sounding foolish, he leapt up out of his seat, hurled himself forward, and slammed his hand on the desk at which they sat, pointing an accusing finger at her. All this occurred before the silent statue of the prison guard had the chance to move from his position. The guard sprang into action, grabbed hold of Stefan, and pulled his arms roughly behind him. Stefan struggled, unleashing a strength that he had not used in years.

“You’re supposed to fucking listen to me, help me!” His face inches from hers, he was shaking not with anger but with fear; she retracted only slightly. The follower drew back his seat and prepared to escape. Stefan felt little satisfaction in spooking the follower but he really needed to inflict fear upon her.

The prison guard dragged Mr. Mademan back to his seat. Mademan pushed his waist up high trying to avoid sitting in the seat like a petulant toddler, as the guard clicked handcuffs around his wrists.

“Sit down Mr. Mademan.” Her voice calm, she unflinchingly glared at him with a blank expression, not at all fazed. Stefan realized for the first time that this woman was not only unafraid but was powerful, steely in her composure. He couldn’t intimidate her. It was he who was intimidated. He slumped back down in his seat, defeated. Stefan ran his eyes over the follower—he was a coward. Not once had he attempted to defend her. Perhaps the follower knew something that he did not about this woman whose composure could not be rocked.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” Stefan felt the lump rising in his throat and gulped it back down. There was no way he could expose his total lack of control and fear. They all knew that she was in charge, that she called the shots, and Stefan was just having a hard time accepting that.

“Who told you that? Who told you that we are here to help you?” she enquired.

Stefan held his head low again, afraid to look at her. He knew she could smell his fear, see his hands trembling. Finally, clasping his hands together, he sighed. No one had actually told him that they were there to help; he simply felt that they should want to help him.

“We are here, Mr. Mademan, to decipher whether or not you are ready and want to be rehabilitated back into the community, and, more importantly, whether or not you pose a risk to children. That’s our job. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“We’ve taken account from your doctor, the warden, your probation officer, and psychologist, and we’ve also read your application. Think of it as a point system, and it is our job to score you on different areas of your progress, or lack thereof. We will then decide whether or not your parole is granted. It’s all very scientific; there is no emotion or support here. I am not your therapist. Is that clear?”

Giving no time for him to respond, she continued, “From here, we will record our findings and make the relevant recommendations. If your score is high enough, a final decision will be made. You do not have to appeal to us or explain anything. Only answer the questions put before you.”

Stefan nodded knowingly. He had said too much, crossed an invisible line. The anger and resentment emanating from the woman filled the room up to the brim. He felt claustrophobic and desperately wanted the assessment to be over. He wanted to move his feet or lick his dry lips—move in some way—but he couldn’t. Instead, he sat paralyzed, motionless.

The woman quickly scrawled a few more notes in her leather-bound A4 pad. He could now feel her eagerness to leave the room and get away from him. He noticed her expensive diamond engagement ring sparkling against the dim light and wondered what kind of man could catch and keep a woman like her. Everything about her was perfect, which only added to his sense of inadequacy. Her perfume, subtle and light. Her neutral-colored manicure. Her hair held up in a bun—no straggles of hair lightly pulled loose. Her makeup understated. Confidence exuded from her.

The follower followed. Between the two people who sat before him, Stefan knew that it was she who would make the final decision.

As they whispered and wrote their notes, he felt as if he’d lost. There was no chance of his getting an early release. He felt utterly helpless. For the past twenty years, he had made sure that he had been a model prisoner, did everything by their rules, by their book. Everything had led up to this day, and he had blown it. He felt foolish and pitiful. He had lost. What would he tell Elise? She had waited five years; there was no way she was going to wait another ten.

The woman lifted her head. “We’re all done here.” She nodded, the two stood in unison, and they gathered their papers together. Stefan felt compelled to say something, try to get them on his side and smooth over his little outburst. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want them to just leave without saying anything further. He thought to ask a question, but there were a million and one questions: which one first?

The follower hurriedly left the room, closing the door behind him. She shuffled a few more papers and collected them in her arms before taking several steps coolly past Stefan toward the door. He couldn’t bear to see her exit. He sat quite still, not turning to watch her leave. She took a few steps, the sound of her pristine heels on the rubber-covered floor signaling finality, but then she stopped. She turned back and leant in closely over his shoulder. The guard stood unmoving, eyes to front. The subtle notes of her perfume wafted over him, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in a shot as she spoke, her breath sending shivers down his spine.

“You see, Stefan, if it were down to me, if it were my job alone to decide what to do with you, I’d take you somewhere in the middle of nowhere and I’d chop your fucking balls off with a rusty axe. I’d put a stop to all that perversion. Then, I’d chop off your feet so you would never, ever wander near another child. I’d gouge out both of your eyes, so you would never again lay them upon another innocent child. Then, I’d chop off both of your hands, so you could never...