I am deaf.

"Come out, my little birdie."

I am blind.

The sliver of light underneath the closet door was blocked. Two feet. One wears a bloodied sock; the other is bare, prime for kicking.

I am mute.

I'm biting my lip so hard I can taste the copper spill of blood. Don't you dare make a sound. If he hears you, it will be a hundred times worse.

I am dumb.

I know nothing.

I am nothing.

Let me disappear.

"Sara?" There was a blur of skin color in front of her face. She flinched, preparing for the familiar blow, but none came. She opened her eyes and realized she wasn't hiding in her closet anymore, this time she was searching for evidence in someone else's.

"What planet were you on?" Nick chuckled.

"What?" she shook her head as if it was filled with water, sloshing in her head, blocking her ears.

"You stopped taking pictures and you got that kinda spacey look…"

"Oh. I'm just really exhausted, you know back to back shifts…" she trailed off, bringing the camera back up to her eye, nothing was in focus.

"Come on. Just about anyone that works with you knows that you almost ask for these assignments," he smiled but her quick, tight lipped glare told him to zip it (unless he wanted a splash of cold, gritty coffee shoved down his shirt).

"So I'm thinking, the killer entered through the window with the lock already busted,"

"-suggesting familiarity," Nick pointed out.

Sara closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, but continued on as if he hadn't said anything.

"He sneaks up behind her. Pushes her onto the bed. Ties her arms to the bedpost…"

Sara cleared her throat awkwardly.

"And he rapes her," Nick finishes softly, with an undertone of anger. It was barely there, but Sara recognized the feeling she herself felt surging through her veins.

She couldn't look at him, just picked up again,

"Then takes a sharp object and stabs her," her voice is barely audible at this point, "at least a dozen times."

Sara stiffens when she feels a hand brush against her shoulder.

"Hey," he says it like a greeting but she can hear the question underneath, the concern? But he doesn't ask the question with real words. As his hand moves away and her body sags, she realizes she almost wanted him to. As she bends over to collect her evidence, she sees something dirty and white out of the corner of her eye. It's a cigarette. A used one, with definite traces of saliva at the beginning and blood at the end.

"Hey Nick," she clears her throat, "did the vic have burns?"

"There was too much blood to see much of anything else," There it was again, that hint of enflamed emotion.

How can someone let someone suffer? And just stand by and watch.