Disclaimer: None of it's mine. The characters all belong to Dick Wolf.

This is my Intoxicated oneshot. Hope you enjoy it. Please review!

She's drunk again, passed out on the living room couch when I get home from school. The boyfriend du jour is nowhere to be seen. I let out a sigh of relief at this realization and tiptoe to my bedroom, hoping that my mother is out for the night and she won't come to my room in a drunken rage.

I climb up on my bed and start my math homework, trying not to worry about the chaos that will ensue the moment my mother awakes. My teachers say to each other when they think I'm not listening, "That Benson woman should be glad she has such a bright daughter. Olivia's one of the smartest kids we've had in a long time and she'll go far if her mother ever gets her act in gear. She's a good kid who's had a rough time."

That's the gist of what they say about me and it's a knife to my pride that they feel so sorry for me. They all know that something's wrong and they've all reassured me that they're there for me, if ever and whenever I need them. They take me aside every time I miss a week of school and come back with a black eye or a cast on my arm. Every time I refuse to change for gym class. Every time I fall asleep in class because I've been up taking care of my mother the night before. They tell me they're here for me but I can't accept their help.

I cringe and pack up my math homework as I hear my mother's heavy footsteps on the stairs. Crouching in the corner of my bedroom, I pull my knees to my chest and wait in trepidation.

She barrels into my room, so drunk that she can't even walk straight. Her eyes are red and bloodshot and her face is pale. "You little bitch!" she slurs, reaching out to grasp my shoulders. She lifts me into the air and shakes me hard. My head snaps back from the violent assault, but I don't cry. I've learned years ago never to cry.

I know better than to say anything or try to fight back. I close my eyes and wait for her to finish.

"Olivia," says Casey, waving a hand in front of my face. "Are you okay?"

I snap out of the horrible memory that resurfaces every time I look at Carrie Eldridge. She reminds me so much of my childhood self. This is a recollection from when I was seven years old and I'm sure Carrie has any number of memories to match.

"Plead her out, Casey," I beg her.

Casey stares at me, uncomprehending. "Why, Olivia? You just won this case for us."

I get to school early one Monday morning. I can't stand to be in that house for one more minute. I lean against the brick wall, sitting outside on the cold, damp pavement, opening a book and pretending I don't see any of the teachers' sympathetic looks as they walk past me to go into the building.

My feet are soaking wet through my tattered shoes. First of all, they are too small for me, and secondly, they are old and worn down. I try to pretend I'm not cold, or wet, or tired from being up all night with my mother, or hungry from not having eaten a thing in almost two days. She hasn't gone shopping in three weeks and I hadn't rationed well enough for our provisions to last. She's refused to give me any grocery money, so I can't even go out to get some myself. Yesterday, I was so hungry that I rummaged through the trash can when my classmates had gone out for recess and wolfed down the half-eaten sandwiches the other kids had discarded.

Three of my classmates skip by, their arms linked. They stare at me with a mixture of disdain, pity, and contempt on their faces as they go into the school. I wait a beat before I follow them, but instead of going to my classroom, I go to the library. I don't want to face my teacher's concerned gaze, her probing questions, however well-intentioned. The library will be empty at this time of day, and even though I'm technically not supposed to be there, no one notices the girl with the matted brown hair and the oversize, hand-me-down sweatshirt, the one with the broken, uneasy smile.

"My mother," I begin and then stop. "My mother used to drink. A lot. It was her way of dealing with her stress."

"What stress?" asks Casey.

"Me," I say sharply. "I'm the product of my mother's rape. Every single day, she looked at me and she saw him. And she never let me forget it."

Casey just looks at me. "I'm sorry." I can tell she doesn't know what to say.

Steven and I are walking in the park, looking at garden after garden of beautiful flowers, holding hands. "You know, in a few years you'll be graduating," he comments.

"Uh huh," I reply noncommittally.

"And now that you're sixteen, wouldn't you like to get away from that evil bitch mother of yours?"

I roll my eyes. Ever since he saw the bruises that covered my body, bashing my mother is one of Steven's favorite topics of conversation. "Stop it," I tell him.

"Okay," agrees Steven. "I have an important question for you, then."

I feel my heart start to pound in my chest. "Yes?"

My pulse quickens and I can hardly breathe as he kneels down in front of me. He hands me a velvet box. "Olivia Benson," he says. "Will you marry me?"

This is the escape I need. I'm not yet sure I love him, but I'm not yet sure I don't, and I need to get away from my mother. It doesn't matter where as long as it's far away from here. "Yes," I reply, suddenly giddy. This is how I can guarantee myself a future – a future I might not have had otherwise.

He walks me home and I'm floating on air as I walk inside. Even my mother, whether she's drunk or sober, can't get me down on a day like today.

I'm wrong. I go straight to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich, but my mother's already there, halfway through a bottle of vodka. But she's lucid enough to notice the ring on my finger. "What's that?" she slurs, gesturing to the ring.

Even though I know I shouldn't, I let go of my apprehension for a moment, wanting my mother to be as excited as I am. "I'm getting married!"

She laughs. "You're just a child."

That hurts, but I try not to show it. "I'm sixteen."

"Who's this lucky guy?"

She seems happy for me and I'm ecstatic, so I say, "Steven."

The smirk disappears from her face and all that's there is anger. That's when I realize I've said too much. "You're going to stop seeing him," she orders me.

"Mom!" I protest. "I love him and he loves me. More than you do!"

"I'll get him kicked out of college!" Her amicable manner is gone now. "I'll never let anyone else have you!" she shrieks, dropping the bottle of vodka on the floor.

It shatters and she picks up the jagged edge, coming at me with it, screaming all the while.

I'm terrified that this is the end. Today might be the day she really does kill me! I know I have to stop her. I kick her and the surprise registers on her face. I've never fought back before. Seeing the shock and sudden weakness on her face gives me a perverse sense of satisfaction. She's always been the one to hurt me, but now I've turned the tables. I have all the power and she has none.

I kick her again. This is for all the times I had to go to school hungry because you refused to by groceries. And again. This is for the bruises I had to cover up with layers and layers of foundation.

Then I stop. I'm so angry now that I might actually kill her. I'm even more afraid now than I was before. I'm so scared she'll call the police and have them arrest me for hurting her. She's on the floor now, down for the count, in the same position she's left me in time and time again.

I can't stay here anymore. This is all too much. I run out the door.

There are tears in Casey's eyes when I finish my story. Mine, though, are dry. The lesson I learned at the tender age of three has served me well. Never cry. Never let them see that you're weak.

"Olivia," says Casey quietly, a lump in her throat. "You didn't kill your mother."

But I could have. That day, I wouldn't have been surprised if I had. It's just fate that Carrie Eldridge took it a step further and she's going to prison, but I survived and came out all the better. I had a life, but Carrie's life as she knows it has just ended.

"No, Casey," I say softly. "I didn't kill my mother. But I know what it's like to want to."

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