A/N: Spoiler alert! If you haven't already seen the season premiere of SVU, turn back now. This is my take on Olivia's inner tug-of-war after she's freed herself.
"I want you dead. I want a bullet in your head. I want you in the ground. No one will miss you. No one will mourn you." Her trigger finger was aching, and her hand was trembling as she presses her gun into his forehead.
She was torn; the confusion radiating from her. She takes a deep breath, trying to channel her rage. As her mind races, she thinks of Elliot.
What would he do in this situation?
Elliot seamlessly toggled between his rational and primal sides. He only bothered to reflect on his violence after pummeling a suspect. She knew he wouldn't hesitate to kill Lewis.
But Olivia was different. She was in control. She was more evolved than her ex-partner.
Or am I?
"C'mon, do it!" he goads her, "Just shoot me—don't wait. Don't let this go to trial, baby. I have a long history of winning streaks. I'll get off, I promise." His taunts were overwhelming her.
No! Her mind yells and reverberates from deep within. But this wasn't her conscience pleading with her to be merciful. It was the beast beckoning for her to show him real pain.
She lifts her hands up so the gun is facing the ceiling and walks towards the mirror. She feels a force clawing at her belly, trying to rip itself from her flesh. She grips the sides of the dresser for support.
"I knew it. You don't have the balls."
It's said that pride is the worst of the seven deadly sins, but wrath is the most dangerous of them all. Its essence lies dormant in all of us. Even a righteous person has the capacity to commit unspeakable horrors—especially when it's in the name of justice.
Is this justice or am I justifying my behavior?
Visions of eyes swollen shut, lacerations, police reports, broken wrists, hospital visits, rape kits, and the endless list of victims' names blur her mind. She can almost smell the stench of hospital antiseptic, as she relives over a decade's worth of their fears and nightmares.
And now she could add one more name to that list: Hers.
She looks in the mirror, then at the metal bar and the gun. She tries to assess which weapon will inflict the most damage. The blood from the gash on her temple runs down her face and stings her eye. She blinks, and in that instant, she makes her choice.
She wasn't going to beat him within an inch of his life. She was going to beat the life out of him.
Olivia bites back the bile rising in her throat. Her body moves independent of her brain. Her hands grip and twist the metal bar, and she spins around.
Lewis's smug grin melts into a grimace of shock. He looks at her face; a pair of dead, hollow eyes stare back at him.
So much for my 'nice girl' theory, he laments as she delivers the first of a half-dozen crushing blows to his head.
The bar connects with his skull again and again. Her screams erupt from the depth of her soul and tear from her lips. They deafen her and expand until they fill every crevice within the room.
His blood sprays across her face and lips. Her tongue darts out and samples the metallic-tasting fluid. It spurs the beast's blood lust, and she bears down harder with each subsequent blow until she's wearing his blood like a mask.
The sickening crack of bone jolts Olivia back into control. Brain matter oozes from the back of his head. The gruesome sight floods her veins with ice water and revulsion, but the beast within her looks at Lewis's mangled body and cheers. After 14 excruciating years of repression, she is finally free.
The fatigue from her muscles overpowers the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her arms fall limp at her sides, and the pain of her broken wrist travels up the entire length of her arm—almost paralyzing her. She throws the bar into a corner; it smears the wall with blood and gore before clanking against the floor.
And to her horror, a tiny smile tugs at the corners of her lips.