A/N I just watched, like, a marathon of SVU, so now it's in my head.
You waver back into the light, leaving behind the moment of darkness that you found so much comfort in. You wonder were you are, why your lying in a mucky puddle, surrounded by graffiti-covered walls and rusted dumpsters. Your ears ring and your head aches. Your face feels as though it had grown another skin. Your lip stings, bloating as blood runs down it and drips off your chin. You cough, sending more blood spitting from your throat.
You can see your breath. Winter, probably. No, Fall. No snow. You went to work today. Your day off was two days ago, a Saturday. So it's Monday.
You try to see strait, the little flickering bulb of the streetlamps spinning in circles. Your dimly aware, almost numb, to the stabs of pain you feel at your chest. Red surrounds you like a crimson halo.
It takes you a moment to recall how you ended up this way, one moment laughing over coffee with your partner, the next choking on your own blood in a damp alley. You see glimpses of bodies, tugging you aside and pushing you around, knocking you against the brick walls like a rag doll. Cool metal sliding into your flesh, cracking through your misplaced ribs and into your chest. It occurs to you that they were to angry for it to be a random attack, though your mind is to clouded to think much of it.
You run thorugh the days events. Woke up. Went to work. Arrested a convicted gang-banger. Sent him to jail...
Gang-banger. He had friends.
The thing with being a detective--or any sort of law enforment, for that matter--is that when you throw a guy in jail, or even think about it, they usually had some sort of aquantence who owed them a favor. It was one of the primary reasons cops were allowed to bring their guns home. Of course, these guns couldn't do much when slapped from your hand and tossed ten feet away. Niether did any sort of training, when your arms were held behind your back and your legs pressed down against the cold concrete.
You try to remember faces as you drag yourself against the dumpster, easing your body into a sitting position. One took your gun. He had long hair. You start to see a face, a forehead, eyes, a nose. Just as quickly, they swirl away, blending back into the red haze, like paint in water.
Your brain, until that moment bouncing around inside your skull like a basketball, begins barking orders at you. Simple, mindless orders that at any normal time would have been equally mindless task. This night, however, you find yourself unable to comply.
Press down, it tells you, stop the bleeding.
You lift a quivering hand, you press it down. You hiss. You drop your hand.
Phone, you settle, I need a phone.
Your fingers, shaking, run through your pockets, finally curling around the simplistic cell phone you indefinatly carry.
The corners get hazy. Your breath becomes huffed gasp of precious air that your lungs deside they don't want to carry.
Phone out. Call Elliot.
Your eyebrows scrunch together with the overwhelming excursion of thought. Speed dial one or two? Or was it three? No, it was two. No, two was Finn. No, it was one. Or three.
"Damn it..." you gasp, your head held back against the stone walls. You press one. Send.
You put it to your ear.
It falls from your soaking palm.
You don't think about calling 911, because you know that it will be forwarded right back to your office, where the entire squad room will run around searching for a ghost. especially motivated by the thought of someone attacking a cop. God forbid.
Of course, the longshot they do find whoever did it, he'd get fifteen, maybe twenty. Come out, do it again. He'd just be more careful not to be caught.
This was the law.
"Hello?" a whipser of a voice says into the phone speaker, hardly ledgable. It doesn't sound like Elliot. His daughter, probably.
You search for your voice, buried among the heap of your body.
"Hello? Is anybody there?"
"...Elliot..." It comes out as a whisper. She didn't hear it.
Your mouth is open, but no words come out. Blood drips down your lip, and you wonder if she can hear it as it splashes into the mucky puddles around you. It as taken a tint of grey. You begin to drift away.
"Hello?" It's a deeper voice now, demanding.
"Elliot?" Your voice is louder now, almost distinguishable.
"...Liv? That you?"
"I...need help..." you gasp, your backround melting away around you until everything is black. You can still hear him, buzzing into the phone.
"What? Are you okay?"
"I...help..." You can scarcely manage to croak. The wall is suddenly a pillow, soft, inviting. You let your head sink into it.
"What? Do you know where you are?"
You can't answer. Your too tired.
"Olivia? Olivia?"
The line seems to go dead, and all you hear is the sound of your breath leaving you, the rest of the world melting away.
A/N I've been getting a few complaints that all of my stories involve death or dry humar. I apolagize. I find nothing else interesting.