A/N So this popped into my head as I heard the song "Carry On" by Fun.
It could be read as a companion to my other story "I told her that this was necessary" but it is not essential. It is set post season 16, the background is all canon with a few added inconsequential details which are in line with my other story. I just couldn't get rid of the thought of how the effects of Harris' attack on Olivia have changed with time passing and post-Lewis, and how my imagined scenario forces her to confront what happened...
It's strange how some memories don't seem to dim with time.
How some dates are enough to bring feelings tumbling back, with the same ferocity as when they first hit. A tidal wave of emotion that crashes onto you all at once, leaving you exposed and stumbling. Its aftershocks ebbing and flowing unpredictably, as you struggle to rebuild, with whatever the initial wave spared you.
There are some global events that can be completely summarized in just a day and a month. September 11th being a date, an event, a whole conversation, a full story, all rolled into a number and word. What feels like the whole of humanity, simultaneously being rocketed back, as phones, computers and watches complete the most mundane of tasks, announcing the new day's date, to a beautiful, sunny, Tuesday morning, when the world changed forever. There is no need to explain anything, it's all explained by the turning of the calendar every year, everyone instinctively just understanding.
Not all dates are so universally marked. To people outside of the US, 4th July is just another summer day, but here it is a public holiday, a day of celebration, for fireworks, picnics, and flags.
And then there are the personal dates, ones that celebrate a new life, commemorate the passing of a loved one, honor life's personal milestones in a day, a month, a year, shared only by a very select few.
But there are also dates that bear a huge significance for one person alone, annually marking things that are best left un-observed, but the recurrence of the date, as inevitable, as the memories that flood back with it.
February 26, 2008.
The date will never slide by me, unnoticed.
It can't, it has been burned too deeply into me. Right beside May 20. 2013 and April 1, 2014.
I can't help but wonder if dates are as interwoven with experiences, for other people, or do the carefully dated statements, interviews and paperwork that make up so much of my job as a cop, help to make me particularly conscious of dates and their import.
I'll never forget the date I first brought Noah home, or the date his adoption was made final, the happy memories momentarily making me smile, as I consider whether today's news has made this date worthy of making my mental catalogue?
I'm glad it was Fin who told me.
He is possibly the only one who really understands the significance of February 26, 2008, he shares its impact; it is never spoken of, but also never quite forgotten.
I know that as he stepped into my office, closing the door softly before reluctantly bringing up the subject, he expected some sort of reaction. Whether it was relief, or upset at the reminder, I know he expected much more than my blank face and "Ok. Thanks...".
I saw the worried frown he flashed me as he tried to explain whatever had happened, deepen, as I held up my hand to stop him, not wanting to know anymore.
I saw his hesitance to leave as I wordlessly returned to my interrupted paperwork, how he searched his mind for a way to draw me out, slowly nodding his acknowledgment of my need to be alone, turning towards the door.
"Liv, I'm here...if you want..."
I just nodded briefly without looking up from the letters swimming nonsensically on the page I am so carefully studying.
As I continue trying to process his news, I bury my head in my work, but I can feel his repeated, worried, glances in my direction.
My pretense at work feels ridiculous as the same page sits, unread, in front of me.
The reasonably sized office starts to feel increasingly cramped as my mind grapples to understand...my body starting to sweat despite the gentle, cool air flowing from the air-con vent. I am still not conscious of any feelings or reactions to his announcement, but I start to fight the feelings of being trapped in this glass box.
I exaggeratedly stretch my heavy limbs, trying to yawn convincingly, putting on a show for the man I am sure is watching me carefully. I showily sort through my purse, dramatically searching for change, hoping to silently communicate my need for some sort of refreshment, anything to reasonably justify getting out of this shrinking, glass, display case.
As I try to calmly stroll through the busy squad room, I make a show of counting through the coins in my hand, to try and avoid any eye contact or any sort of interaction.
When I reach the brightly lit vending machines in the hallway, I realize that I have no destination in mind. My only objective was to get out of my office. I know that I can't sit in the hallway without inviting unwanted attention, my eyes scan the area, mentally ticking off each doorway, until I land on the roof staircase door. I gladly burst through the door, all of a sudden craving the freedom and peace, of the outdoor area, taking the stairs as quick as my leaden legs will allow.
Silently muttering my thanks when I push the roof-door open and hear no alarm.
As I step into the bright summer sun, I throw my head back, closing my eyes tightly, allowing the warm rays to caress my face.
A gentle breeze occasionally flutters my hair.
I soak in the momentary freedom, from paperwork in a stuffy office, with windows that are mere decoration, and can never provide the fresh air they tantalizingly display.
The calm smile is wiped off my face as I remember what sent me running to the roof...
I quietly scan the roof space, ensuring I am alone.
As my eyes move across the enclosed concrete, I am reminded why I don't come up here anymore, why I have avoided this space for years. Images of El and me flash through my mind. Memories of how this place provided me with some respite from the worst of days, how it calmed me, how he, many times, found me up, how we sat and talked, make me smile, but also remind me of his absence.
Even though he wasn't a major part of the events that have seared February 26, into my soul, I wish he was here now, for the end of what he saw begin. It feels like he should be here for this. This place, further deepens the already aching void that he is not here for this news. I try to fight against the feeling that everyone leaves me. El is gone, Cragen is gone, Munch is gone, even Nick, the partner I was unwelcoming to, but who became a valued friend and unwavering supporter, has now left me.
I stand against the low wall running around the perimeter, looking out onto the city, finally allowing myself to feel...
I'm surprised that now, as I give myself permission to feel whatever it is that awaits me, all that I am greeted by is emptiness. Not nothing, a gnawing emptiness that threatens to suck whatever remains of me, into its yawning abyss.
I know I should be relieved, his twenty year life sentence meant that I always knew the day would come when I would have to face his release, now I am spared that.
I should be angry that he didn't serve his time. That, whatever the means, he cheated justice.
I should feel a type of freedom, from the guilt of not pursuing my own charges against him. From the guilt of not doing what I could, to try and increase his term of imprisonment, to further forestall his release.
I should be glad he is gone but I just feel empty.
As I look down, I am comforted by the familiar sounds of the city, traffic moving slowly past, impatient yellow cab drivers leaning on car horns to communicate their sincere annoyance, the sound of countless people scurrying along the streets, hawkers loudly announcing their wares to oblivious commuters and curious tourists. I smell the unique smell of summer in the city, the mix of many different foods, stale coffee and rotting summer garbage.
Intermittently the familiar cacophony of sounds is broken by shouts, or the screech of brakes, or wafts of music carried past my rooftop perch from unidentifiable sources.
There are many different styles of music and song softly melding into a comforting melodic fusion, until a few distinct piano notes and strumming guitar cut through the jumbled din, distinct and clear. I know from its clarity it has to be close, a nearby open window or roof...I begin to listen to the vaguely familiar radio fodder from a while ago, as I try to identify its source.
'You swore and said we are not
We are not shining stars
This I know
I never said we are'
It feels as though this song is calling to me, lulling me into a calm, reminding me that I cannot control everything.
'Though I've never been through hell like that
I've closed enough windows to know you can never look
back'
Oddly this song though familiar to me, is not really known and yet it feels like it is being played specifically for me...
'If you're lost and alone
Or you're sinking like a stone
Carry on'
I give up my quest to find its source, contenting myself to just listen to its strangely encouraging and perfectly pitched lyrics.
As silence greets the end of the tune, I can't help but recognize that I have been through the hell that the unnamed singer hasn't.
I've closed so many windows and doors in my journey to this point; I struggle to even remember what was behind all of them.
I am very lost today. Lost in the memories that have crashed upon me once more, as I heard the news of his death.
I feel alone, despite the fact that I am surrounded by people who care. I know that any one of my squad, my family, would be more than happy for me to share my pain with them... I know how the man who has quietly become my best friend, would be at my side as quick as he possibly could, were I to call him... And yet I am on the roof of the precinct alone... I'm sinking into the abyss of emptiness like the stone the singer talks of, and I'm desperately trying to carry on...
The realization that this song has perfectly encapsulated my feelings brings tears to my eyes. It feels odd that news of his demise, while welcomed, hasn't brought a deluge of emotion, it has only reminded me how broken I still am.
February 26, 2008, that's over seven, long, years ago. How am I not further along the healing process by now?
As I start to calculate the time passed, I can't help but think of Amanda, how she faced her own demon, after five years of silent suffering, not so long ago.
I try to convince myself that it's not even remotely the same thing, I got counseling, I told some people...hell, I even recently told Rafael, accidentally, when the words slipped un-noticed out of my lips, but I didn't keep it to myself. I know how ridiculous it is, to be counting 'accidentally' telling someone about what happened, as desperate proof of some positive, but I didn't report it. I am a Special Victims Unit Police Officer and I couldn't bring myself to file charges against my own attacker. Somehow when you betray the victims you have spent your work life advocating for, with your silence, every person who shares the knowledge of your 'secret' helps you live with yourself.
The words had tumbled from my mouth as I talked with Rafael after the plea deal that found Amanda some semblance of peace, and some punishment for her rapist. I understood her confusion, her pain, her guilt when the man who had hurt her so deeply returned to her life, and obliterated the separation she had spent years building, between her old department, her old Chief who had so grievously betrayed her trust, from the woman who couldn't report her rape. I couldn't help but imagine how I would cope if my hidden past returned to haunt me, and the words in my head were vocalized before I could stop them. I never meant to tell Rafael, but I found a strange peace in knowing that he knew, and it didn't change anything.
He can't hurt me now though. I will never have to worry about coming face to face with him. He will never be free again. He is dead. Lowell Harris is dead.
As I really begin to understand that he is dead, gone, I start to wonder how it happened? Was it natural causes? Did his heart just stop, as he peacefully slept? Or did he make one too many enemies? Did his character encourage another prisoner to speed his journey to his life's end? Was he stabbed, bleeding slowly, allowing him to feel a little of the terror he inflicted on so many women? Did he take his own life?
The question I couldn't hear the answer to, when Fin offered it earlier, now refuses to be pushed aside. I need to know what caused him to die.
I also need to know how Fin knew? Is it possible that all these years later, Fin has kept tabs on him? Why would he do that? I can't help but wonder how the quiet man who saved me from his intended course of action, feels today, at the news he seemed so reluctant to share with me? Other than the support group and therapist I attended at the time, Fin was the person who knew the most about what happened. He was always there for me, even when my undiagnosed PTSD threatened my job, my career, all that I had left, we never really spoke in detail about that day. He knows that Harris had manhandled me, threatened me, beaten me, but he arrived in time to stop anything more. He knows how badly affected I was. How I struggled, even though I never expressly told him. He kept my secrets; about the assault, about my therapy. He silently supported me, always. He offered to talk, more times than I can count. We occasionally spoke but we have never had an in-depth conversation about it, and I'm worried that now it may be too hard to avoid any longer.
As I hear the door bang open behind me, I greet the man I knew it would be, tentatively. Gratefully accepting the proffered coffee and zip-up sweatshirt, unsure how to start the long put-off conversation...
"Fin,..."
My words immediately fail me. He nods softly, silently agreeing to help me find a way into this discussion...
"You've been up here a long time. I looked in a few places before I remembered how you used to like it up here...I thought you might be thirsty and it's starting to cool down..."
He gestures around, and I realize that the sun is nearly gone for another day.
"I guess I needed some time..." I softly admit.
He nods his understanding, "I've checked on you a couple of times..."
A small smile forces its way through, as I realize the banging door was his way of announcing himself, so he wouldn't scare me.
"Fin, how did he die?"