A pre-ep for my first fic, 'Running Away'. What exactly was happening to Casey those three months between the rape and the beginning of 'Running Away'? You don't have to read that to understand this. Thanks to prentiss-be-mine, for encouraging me to write this and post this.

Warnings: Rated 'M' for references to alcoholism and descriptions of self-harm. May trigger.

Chapter 1

"Call me when you're ready to date again, Casey."

Then there is the sound of the door shutting, leaving only confusion and pain in its wake. Confusion, because it seemed like such a calm, nonchalant comment, and this night was everything but.

Pain, because everything was hurting. Here I am, collapsed on my apartment floor, blood soaking through my skirt, a sharp, burning pain radiating from my shoulder and my chest. I feel hazy, and my head is pounding. I blink before slowly pushing myself to into a sitting position, hands shaking so much I can hardly keep my grip on the plastic bowl on the ground.

I really don't understand what had just happened. Wait, yes, I do. I do understand what had happened, just… not the why.

I have just been raped. That's what just happened.

I grip the edge of my coffee table, muscles starting to tremble with the effort of pulling myself up. I hesitantly try putting weight on my left leg, then gasp and nearly scream from the pain. I lower myself to the ground again, sweating and gasping, my hand coming to clench my thigh. Blood is streaming from the misshapen gashes on the back of my leg, and I have never in my life experienced pain like this before. The sight of my blood on my carpet makes me dizzy.

"That's weird," I remark out loud. "Blood making me dizzy. Doesn't usually happen. Guess that's just 'cause it's mine. And so much of it." I see the plastic bowl on the floor, the one I'd used to fight back with before it cracked on Danny's back and he grabbed it from me. I hastily pick it up and slide it onto the coffee table, making sure it was in its place, then realize the table was off center. I must have kicked it in the struggle. Frowning, I use my good arm to move it back to its original spot before looking around, making sure there was nothing else out of place.

That sure was a lot of blood. I inhale, wincing slightly at the uncomfortable, faint tickling sensation in my throat and lungs. It wasn't painful, but it made it hard to breathe. Swallowing did nothing to dislodge the feeling from my throat, and, panting, I struggle to stand again.

This time, I make it, holding one leg gingerly in the air, too scared of the pain to even rest it on the ground. My door is unlocked. That wasn't right; it should be locked- and right now, all that was important was recreating a semblance of order, of normality. That was my focus.

I practically crawl to the door, my blood staining the floor. "Damn," I mutter. "Have to clean that up." Gripping the doorknob, I pull myself up right and use it for balance. I try to lock it several times, but my hands are shaking so much it is nearly impossible. When I rest a trembling hand on my own wrist and check my pulse, I find the blood pounding furiously at a ridiculously fast pace under my flesh. I swear again, my vision flashing red and white as I try to lock it again.

I shake my head, fighting to stay conscious. I have to lock my door. My door is normally locked at night, and, damn it, today is normal. Tears of frustration began to form in my eyes when I can't lock my door and my vision flashes again. I fall to the side against the wall in the hallway, suddenly feeling lightheaded. I slowly push myself upright before tumbling to my other side, crashing to the floor. I cough weakly, struggling to push myself upright, but I can't move. My vision flashes once more, filling with a myriad of black dots. Black dots and red swirls…

Beeping. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

It's loud and it hurts my ears.

Stop. I wants it to stop.

But then the memories assault me, and I'm too afraid to open my eyes. And, by god, my injuries hurt. My shoulder and my head and my chest and those gashes. They all hurt so much.

I passed out. That's what happened to me. I passed out in the hall outside of my apartment… now I'm here. Wherever that is. Did Danny come back? De he find me passed out in the hall? Oh, god…

The panicky thought was enough to force me to open my eyes. I'm lying here in this bed, wearing a flimsy hospital gown, several wires and hospital machines attached to me. There's an IV in my arm, and, surely, it's why the pain is more of an ache than unbelievable agony it was back in my apartment. I look up at the IV bag hanging by head and am surprised to see it full of blood. I mean, I know I lost a lot of blood from those cuts, but… enough to need a blood transfusion? I'm in a generic hospital room, empty of any visitors, and, once again, panic rises up in my chest. I looked myself over, grasping at the hospital ID bracelet on my wrist and hurriedly scanning the information. All I gain is the knowledge that I'm at Mercy and that they don't know who I am- instead of my name, they just put 'Jane Doe' on there. My arm's in a sling, and when I shift my position slightly, I feel stitches on my thigh.

Someone must have found me unconscious in the hallway and called 911. Well, that's all well and good, but I need to get out of here. Who knows what time it is- or what day it is; maybe I slept for more than just a few hours. Oh, god, what if I ended up missing work? I'd have to come up with a believable excuse. Swearing under my breath, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed before gasping as pain whiplashed up the length of my left leg, nearly paralyzing me as the excruciating sense of my flesh being on fire returns. Gritting my teeth as a soft whimper escapes from my throat, I grasp my leg tightly and rock back forth slightly, a few tears coming to my eyes that I struggle not to give into.

"Ma'am?"

There's a nurse standing in the doorway, watching me hesitantly- and there's that look in her eyes. That look I've seen so much in my career; hell, I've given it a few times myself. It's the sympathetic, 'I'm so sorry for you' look that we give to rape victims.

What should I make of it? I don't know. That's what I am, but I'm not asking for her pity. Hell, I'm not feeling much of anything at this point.

"Wh-what am I doing here?" I ask, clearing my throat as her expression grows even more sad and sorrowful. Why is she looking at me like that? I shift uncomfortably under her gaze as she takes another step into the room.

"A neighbor found you passed out in the hallway of your apartment building about four hours ago. You passed out due to blood loss, but you're all right now. We gave you a transfusion."

I nod. "Thank you. But I… I really need to go home. Can I leave now? Please?"

"Well, there are some detectives here. The doctor who examined you said that there were signs of sexual assault and he called the Special Victim's Unit. They're here to-"

"What? No! You can't do that! I didn't report any crime!"

The nurse doesn't back away from my anger or look intimidated in the least. Instead, she gives me another one of those sad looks, like the ones she would give a child, and an understanding smile. And now, that's starting to piss me off. "Ma'am, it's standard to call the police in cases like these. There are two detectives out in the waiting room. They have to speak with you and get your statement; find out what happened-"

"No. I'm leaving. I'm checking myself AMA, I don't care what I have to do, just get me the forms I need," I demand sharply. I have to get out of here. Now is my only chance, while SVU still doesn't know who their victim is. Who's out there? Is it Elliot and Olivia? Maybe Munch and Fin? Whoever it is, they can't know. They can't know about this, and I won't let them. My hand is resting on the IV, and I'm about to tear it out when there's a new, unfamiliar male voice from the doorway.

"Ma'am?"

My head whipped around to stare at him, amazed. There are two men standing in the doorway, and they must be the cops- I can see the badges on their belts- but I don't recognize them. What's going on?

"Who are you?"

The nurse backs out of the room as the two detectives step forward. One of them, with greasy black hair, pale skin, and brown eyes, said, "I'm Detective Adams. Are you Casey Novak?"

Who the hell is this guy? Why didn't the doctor call the Manhattan Special Victim's Unit… oh.

Olivia is out of town for a battered women conference. Munch is on medical leave. One of Elliot's daughters was in a serious car crash and he's with her. And Fin and Cragen were transporting a suspect from Richmond to here. Dispatch must of forward the call to another district's SVU squad- thank god. Today is my lucky day- but I can't blow this. This could be my one and only chance to keep what happened a secret.

But how do they know my name? No, they don't know I'm Casey, they're asking if I am. They don't know, and I can lie. I have to. Whatever happens, there is never going to be a police report with the name 'Casey Novak' written there under the label as the victim. "Why? Why do you think that?"

Adams's partner, a younger man- young enough to still be a rookie- with soft brown hair, green eyes, and a shirt that was probably a size too small so it strained over his well-muscled chest, flashed a white smile at me and said, "I'm Detective Michaels. And, well, we found you outside her apartment, which is covered with blood, so we just assumed-"

"Well, you assumed wrong," I said flatly. I flinch back when he takes a step forward. Frankly, I don't want either one of them near me right now and I'm acutely aware of each and every one of their movements and how they seem to be getting closer to me. "I'm not Casey. I'm Allison White. And I'm not filing charges. I'm not! Nothing happened to me; I'm fine."

"How do you explain all the blood? And the fact that the rape kit came back positive?"

My blood runs cold at that, and I freeze at the thought of someone touching me while I was unconscious. Even a doctor. I was out cold; I didn't even know, and… "What rape kit?"

Detective Michaels shrugged nonchalantly and smiled at me again. "Well, the doctor ran one as soon as he'd stabilized you. It's standard procedure, in cases like these."

"I'm not filing charges. And stop looking at me like that, Michaels. I'm not one of your victims to pity and take care of, and I'm not looking for a date."

Adams glared at his partner. "I apologize for him. He's new. Anyway, look, we can't force you, but not filing charges is-"

"Is my choice. My. Damn. Choice. And I'm not going to file charges. Just… go back to Brooklyn or wherever it is you came from and leave me the hell alone."

Michaels shrugged. "Who knows, Adams, maybe we were wrong about her being raped. Let's go."

Adams just sighed. "You've got a lot to learn, Michaels. But, you're right, Allison, it's your choice." He waited for his partner to leave before looking back at me and added one more comment. "I don't know if this means anything to you, but those cuts, on your leg? They're initials. D-G."

And that's his name. Danny Garcia. It shocks me, yes, horrifies me, yes, but it doesn't take any intelligence to piece together what that's supposed to mean.

I'm his. That's what it means. I'm his. He put those cuts on my leg and branded his name into my skin so he'll always own me.