This story deals with domestic violence, an event I have had the fortune of never being part of, but which plagues millions of people every day. Please, if you are a victim, or know someone who is, SPEAK UP. Silence means suffering.
Daniel wasn't exactly sure what had brought him to her apartment tonight. Maybe it was the fact that she had started wearing long sleeves and long pants again. The fact that she was more subdued than usual. At first he thought she had started cutting again. But when she started coming in with bruises on her face – claiming she had just run into a door, or tripped on the stairs – he knew something wasn't right.
So as he stood outside her door, he wondered why he hadn't done this earlier. He wasn't especially close with her, but that didn't mean he didn't care about her.
"Daniel?" she asked when she opened the door. "What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk," he answered, voice gentle, but eyes serious.
She shook her head. "Look, this really isn't a good time ..." she answered, ducking back inside, closing the door.
Daniel put his hand on the door, pushing it back open. "Is he here?" he asked, his concern growing.
"What? No ..." she replied. "It's just ... I'm really tired."
He looked at her. "Malia ... we need to talk."
With a sigh of defeat she let him in, knowing from the tone of his voice that there was no way to escape him. She sat on the couch, grabbing a sweatshirt, pulling it over her head.
"It's the middle of July," Daniel said, taking a seat next to her. "You can't possibly be cold."
A guilty look settling on her face, Malia pulled the sweatshirt off, but refused to look at the man sitting next to her. Unable to see her face, Daniel examined her bare arms, covered in a leopard print pattern of bruises, some old and fading, others dark and fresh. It made him sick to see her like this: a strong, independent woman reduced to a helpless victim.
"He does this to you, right?" he finally asked.
Malia nodded slowly, still avoiding his gaze.
"Why haven't you said anything?"
She looked up at him, briefly, and he could see the tears, the utter look of helplessness in her eyes, and it killed him inside.
"They say that if you were abused as a child, then you fall back into the cycle as an adult," she said quietly, looking at the floor, before looking back up. "I grew up with abusive families," she added, shrugging. "It's just one of those things I grew accustomed to, I guess."
"But ... You're stronger than that," Daniel said. "I don't understand ..."
"I know. I don't get it either. I mean ... Every time he comes in, I keep telling myself, 'This is it, I'm going to end it.' But I never do. And I don't get it," she said, on the verge of sobbing.
"I could talk to him," Daniel offered.
"No!" Malia said sharply. "No ..." she said again, softer. "I don't want to get anyone else involved in this."
That was when they heard the deadbolt unlock, the door open.
"Malia?" came a voice from the entryway.
"I'm here, Jason," she called back, wiping her eyes, and doing her best to hide what Daniel could only think of as terror from her voice.
"Who the hell is this?" Jason asked as he entered the room, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he looked at Daniel.
"This is Daniel Jackson," Malia answered quickly, standing up. "He's a colleague of mine."
"A colleague, huh?" Jason replied, his steely gaze shifting to Malia. "A little late to be working, isn't it?"
"Daniel just came by to drop off some research materials. He was just leaving," she said, looking pointedly at Daniel.
Daniel looked right back at Malia, his face clearly indicating that he had no intention of leaving her in this situation.
"Good night, Daniel," she said, a bit forcefully. "I'll see you in the morning."
Reluctantly, Daniel stood, shooting a glare at Jason, before leaving the apartment.
The next morning, it was Jack who walked into his lab.
"She's in the hospital," he said.
"Where?" Daniel asked.
"Memorial."
Jack practically had to jump out of the way to avoid being flattened by Daniel as he ran out of the room.
On the drive to the hospital, Daniel had been preparing himself for the worst. He knew who had done it, and he knew that it was probably because of him.
She was asleep when he entered the room. He looked at her chart, cringing at the injuries listed. Broken ribs, concussion, fractured wrist, numerous bruises and lacerations. A rage began welling in him, but it dissipated when he heard a soft, "Daniel," and looked up from the chart to see her, face cut and bruised and swollen, but smiling.
"Hey," he said, returning the smile. "Should I ask what happened?"
She looked at him, and he knew. "I went out for cigarettes, and was mugged on the way back," she said, almost sounding bored with a lie she had no doubt repeated countless times.
"Ah, the old 'mugger' story," Daniel said, pulling up a chair next to her bed. After a while, he took her hand. "I'm sorry," he apologized.
"Me too," she said. "But I intend to make it up," she added, nodding at the police officer who had just entered the room.
"Excuse me, sir," the officer said, pulling out a pad and pen. "I need to have a word with Ms. Phelps."
Daniel stood. "Of course," he said, before turning back to Malia. "I'll see you later, ok? If you need to call me ..."
Malia nodded as Daniel left, before turning her attention back to the officer.
It was a week before he heard from her again.
"I turned him in," Malia said triumphantly. They were sitting on a bench in the park, watching kids and dogs and people running in the sunshine. "They arrested him when he came to the hospital. He's being held without bail, and I've got a restraining order against him."
"That's great news," Daniel answered, smiling.
"If it hadn't been for you, I probably wouldn't have done it," she added, looking at him.
"I was just the chorus," he said. "You were the star of the show."
"You helped me see how bad things were getting, Daniel." She kissed him on the cheek, a sign of gratitude and friendship. "Mahalo."
"That means 'thank you', right?" Daniel asked jokingly.
"Yes," Malia said, chuckling lightly, resting her head on his shoulder, content in the realization that, for the first time in her life, she knew someone who was more than a colleague. For the first time, she had a friend.