Hey guys, I know this is a little unrealistic given Ziva's strength of character, but I'm feeling a little dark and whipped this up. If I get the replies I'll continue, but if not no harm done – I want to write stuff that you all like.
Technically, this could be a continuance of What Happens Before You Die or it can stand on its own. I'll probably do a few different stories to build upon What Happens based on the feedback I got requesting more. However, those stories likely won't relate to the themes described here.
Let's say this is an experiment of sorts!
Also, in this installment italics indicate what is happening present day.
WARNING THIS CONTAINS DESCRIPTIONS OF SELF-HARM. IF YOU THINK YOU MAY GET TRIGGERED, YOU PROBABLY WILL.
….
They say that the nights are the hardest.
That the littlest things will cause a flashback – a smell, a look, a move of the hand.
The most obvious remembrances – seeing a dead rape victim, perhaps – they say that will stay with you for days.
They are right, this much she knows.
It has been one month since her hands were freed. 31 days of flashbacks.
Stares. Awkward silence. Glass that's full of hairline cracks.
There are words that they use. Violated, tortured.
Traumatized.
No matter the language, such words simply cannot describe how you are no longer yourself.
How you watch the days unfold as if one of Tony's movies. You see and hear and talk and give an occasional laugh. But you aren't really there.
You offer them the shell of the person they once knew. An exhausted act of remembering to antagonize Tony, pushing yourself to show joy in helping him steal the next chapter in McGee's novel.
And at night you writhe and pace and medicate. At first, you just want to feel. But then you realize that you're caught in a desperate search to find something that will hurt more than you do on the inside.
…..
Earlier That Day
She has little patience for him.
When they first came across the marine's dead daughter – naked, throat slit, lying in some bushes off the base's soccer fields – he had given her a look.
She knew what he was asking – will you be ok with this?
Her way of saying yes was to be the first to approach the body, pressing a cold, limp finger into the scanner to verify identity.
But the real answer, of course, was I am far from ok with this.
Last week they had a dead female marine, but she had been shot randomly during a bank robbery.
This girl – with her clear complexion and raccoon-like mascara eyes – she was the first remembrance
Of his hand. Naked thighs pressed into the dirt, rocks. A desperate search for something to end it, something to erase the hell from which she was unfortunately….
"Ziva?"
She looks up. Tony has stopped photographing. She's not sure how long she has been sitting there.
"Our victim is Marissa Sanders. 15. Daughter of Colonel Sanders."
He barely nods because he is still looking at her, mind off the case. She knows what is running behind those eyes.
She pushes away from the body, rising until she is eye level with Tony, close enough to reach out and grab hold of the camera.
"I'll finish, if you want to check up on McGee's perimeter search, get an ETA on Ducky."
He pulls the camera away and she meets his gaze. "Tony – "
"You don't have to prove anything, Ziva." His voice is low and soft and pleading.
She stiffens, for only a split second, before she grabs his hand roughly.
It hurts and he lets go of the camera.
"I will finish, Tony." And then her back is to him and she's crouching beside the body.
He doesn't leave as her finger snaps furiously. He doesn't move as he wonders if it's just this case, just today, or if really, Ziva isn't ok.
….
She pounds her fist onto the floor of her bedroom. The hurt explodes and she feels bruises float inside.
It is not enough to hurt more than knowing what you really are.
…
Earlier That Evening
She flips the photo over, facedown onto her desk. Her eyes move onto the next one, but she can feel his sudden shift in attention. She looks up and her voice is low. It bites.
"What?"
His eyes are trained on her, as they have been for most of the day, yet unreadable across the dark squad room.
"It's late. Why don't we call it a night?"
She wants to scream at him.
What does he want? For her to exude an ounce of weakness? To falter?
Does he not understand each painful minute spent preserving the shell of her former self? How it is the only thing keeping her sane?
"Go ahead," she finally offers, releasing his gaze.
She returns to the photographs.
The girl in the photo has bruising and blood on her thighs, and Ziva's cheeks grow hot because all she can see is her own face in the photo.
And Tony is still staring and she knows that all he can see, too, is her face as that of a victim's.
…..
She finds herself in the bathroom. She tells herself that she'll just look. That she'll sit here, think. That things will change tomorrow.
But she knows that she will do it.
She pulls out the razor, fresh and new and purple. Sits on the toilet.
And then her hands begin to fumble at the plastic around the blade. She moves carefully, precisely, until the small blade is free, gleaming in the palm of her hand.
…
It is not what he expected to be doing on a Friday night. He could have been in bed with Mindy or at Front Page watching the Nationals play.
But something isn't right. He drove by her apartment, twice.
He could tell himself that he just wants to talk. But talking could wait till tomorrow, and that thought, that weight, nagging at him.
That crimson mark he saw on her sleeve last week?
Cannot wait.
….
She picked the blade up with two fingers, carefully.
If you did it quick and smooth it tore the skin open, deep and flowing with little bits of white.
If you did it slow it was shallow but hurt more. You feel each cell of skin opening, each drop of blood beginning to breathe.
She placed the blade against her wrist and drew it once, fast, across the center.