Love's Redemption
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Dick Wolf and NBC. I just borrow them sometimes. As always, anything you recognize isn't mine.
A/N: I wanted to do something a little different than the other things posted on this site, and this little piece came of it. It's a topic not many have covered, and it was kind of hard for me to settle my thoughts and write what I really wanted to say. I think I finally got to where I wanted with this. It has a point, and I hope you can get something out of it. Enjoy.
May 24th, 1978. Serena Benson.
And once again, I am crouched over the toilet, vomiting up my bile. It is seven in the morning and I have just woken up. My stomach is completely empty. Devoid of anything that can bring me relief. My nose and my throat are burning, and my mouth is filled with an unbelievable acidity. It had started at the beginning of the week.
After slowly getting up, I move to push my hair from my eyes, and I thoroughly brush my teeth and rinse my mouth for at least two minutes.
And I still feel dirty.
But hey, what else is new.
I shuffle slowly into the kitchen, one hand on my sore stomach, the other sweeping the wall, ready for me to lean on in case my legs give out. As if everything that has happened to me these past few weeks is insufficient, I have contracted the stomach flu.
These past few weeks. Five, exactly.
After I had regained consciousness in that ally, I had had the impression that every doctor in the world had teamed up to make me pass test, after test, after test. To think they took me for a fucking laboratory rat. And the police had asked me ten million questions.
Questions that were always embarrassing. Especially on what he had done to me.
"Whatever happened, Ms. Benson, you must not feel guilty. There was nothing you could do. You don't need to defend yourself. You can tell us everything; we understand…" was all the female officer kept repeating. She proved to be very patient, comprehensive, and kind. And me, I wanted to hit her.
She'd interviewed me in front of a big mirror towards which she kept shooting furtive glances whenever I hesitated or didn't want to answer. Did she think I was stupid enough to not recognize a two-way mirror?
Everything makes my head hurt and makes me want to cry. It is him. He is always in the foreground of my mind. And he is driving me to insanity.
I stop in the kitchen, and make myself a piece of toast and a cup of tea. Should my stomach hold anything down, toast is relatively safe. I am feeling better. A little.
May 25th, 1978. Serena Benson.
I finish off my last bit of coffee and glance up at Julia. I am grateful for her presence. We'd been good friends since college. And I am glad that she is here today. Finally I have something to take my mind off things. And I hate being alone. I have too much freedom to think, when I am by myself.
"Serena…are you pregnant?"
My head snaps up and I stare, open mouthed, at her.
"What the hell are you talking about? Of course not…I…" The words die in my mouth, and it is as if freezing water had been splashed down my back. I look at my hands as they fidget in my lap.
"But you could be, right?" Her voice is gentle and soft, and her expression holds general concern, but the anger that swells inside of me is unrepentant. How can she mention such atrocities? Who the hell would even think that!
"No. No…that's impossible. I can't be pregnant."
"Serena, you know he didn't use a…" She clears her throat. "And you've been sick. It's okay, you can tell me. I won't tell anyone, I promise."
In one bound I am off the couch and racing to my room like an arrow shot from a bow, hoping to leave Julia's words far, far behind me.
"Get out," I mutter, and my hands shake uncontrollably as I shut my bedroom door behind me.
May 30th, 1978. Serena Benson.
Come on, Serena. Be brave. You're pregnancy test will never work if you are satisfied with clenching it in your hand. Just do it. The result will show up in only one minute. If it's white, you'll be okay, you'll be okay…
And if it's blue…
Shit, stop doing that. Just do the test.
I re-read the instruction manual. It seems simple enough. The indicator is included, just pee on it. That's it, that's all.
I take a deep breath and do as instructed. It is stupid anyway, I am not pregnant.
It's impossible. Not now, not like this.
I put the test on top of the toilet and wash my hands, now there is nothing left to do but wait. Just one, tiny minute.
It is the longest minute of my life. I am sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, and I can't see the test but I close my eyes anyway and count steadily. I stop at fifty-nine, though, incapable of thinking the last number. Much less pronounce it.
I am not pregnant. The vomiting is just the after shock of what happened to me. That' all. Rigid like a solider, I turn around, my eyes still squeezed shut.
I don't even have to pick it up. From where I am standing, I can clearly see the colour.
No. No, no, no. Blue.
What am I going to do? Oh, dear God, what am I going to do?
July 14th, 1978. Serena Benson.
I am alone. My friends try to help, but they don't understand. It's my fault. It's my fault. Now, I'm paying the consequences. I'm all alone.
God, I never meant to let myself be raped.
August 3rd, 1978. Serena Benson.
I have a picture of you in my wallet. It's grey and white and blue, and you're just a small but defined shape in the centre. You're all bent up and twisted at weird angles and I know you can't possibly be comfortable in there. You're growing. You're changing. I don't think I like you. And I hate myself.
September 18th, 1978. Serena Benson.
It would be so easy just to end it all. You are an infuriating inconvenience. I can't do anything without thinking about how it will affect you. I'm always on guard. I'm always cautious. And I don't want to be. I don't want to have to change who I am because of you. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want you. I wish my life was the way it was. I'd take anything. Please.
I know that once you join me, we'll never be happy. I won't be happy, and you most certainly won't enjoy it, either. It'll be a rough ride. I hope you can be strong.
November 28th, 1979. Serena Benson.
I'm not so alone anymore. You're here, you keep good company, I guess. I know you recognize my voice because you flutter whenever I speak to you. Why does that make me feel warm inside? You kick when I do anything particularly reckless, and you also kick when I lay down to go to sleep at night. It's as if you're shouting "Don't give up yet, Momma." Momma. Yeah, that's who I am now. And I've just realized that I have no idea how I'm supposed to take care of you.
Jesus, I'm so scared.
But it's still better than being alone.
January 26th, 1979. Serena Benson.
Two days late, baby. You planning on coming out anytime soon?
January 27th, 1979. Serena Benson.
I hold you in my arms and I wait. I wait to feel something. Anything. I wait and wait. Nothing has come. Not pleasure. Not pain. Not joy, nor anguish. Not love, but not hate, either. Nothing.
I stare deep into your brown eyes, brown like small, mysterious orbs, and your gaze meets mine. It's as if you were hoping that I would…that I would recognize you. I can't find any other explanation. But I don't recognize you. You are a stranger. And I feel guilty. I had the same impression when you were in my stomach. And it's still there today. I don't care like a good mother should and it's not even your fault. That's why I feel guilty. I am made of only regret and culpability.
"You should feed her," Suggests the nurse, Mrs. Finley, smiling.
I don't want to take care of it, but that nurse is staring at me. I didn't want her to guess what was going on in my head. A young mother is not supposed to feel anything but love for her child.
"Do you have a bottle?" I ask, in a hesitant voice.
"Not in this hospital, no. Bottles are only to be used if prescribed by a doctor."
I sigh. I don't want to do this. I look down at you, and you're curious gaze is still fixated on me. I wonder why you don't cry. Babies always cry when they are born, right? So why are you so silent? I sigh again, and lower the corner of my white night gown. I am too tired for modesty, and I don't care that the nurse is watching. I raise you to the proper height, and gently guide your chin to my breast. You tug with fast little suckles.
Olivia.
You are no longer a thing without a name, without reality. You are no longer the burden of a rape and you aren't a simple way to punish myself. You are a real person. And you need me in order to survive.
And oh, God, I've never been so afraid in my life. I look at you again and this new truth hits me. Violently. It pierces my heart, before engulfing me whole. Olivia. My Olivia. You are…you are my daughter. Mine.
Olivia Benson. My flesh and blood. Half me, half him. And one hundred percent you. Not a doll, not a symbol, nor an idea, but a real person with a whole new life opening up in front of you.
And entirely my responsibility.
Tears leak onto my cheeks. I smile a little at you, and despite my blurred vision, I swear you smile back. It is only a tiny smile, but a smile nonetheless. This time I look at you because I can't not look at you. I watch you feed, your little eyelids closed, your little fist clenched and poised against my skin. I smell your scent, our scent. I feel like you are taking from me much more than milk. With each new breath, I can feel the last nine months float farther and farther away, until they're only a distant memory. But you don't drink for long. A couple minutes, not more. You rest against my chest, eyes closed.
I close my eyes too, because I'm really, really tired. I lean my head back against the scratchy pillows.
Suddenly, you are being taken from my arms.
"What are you doing?" I asked the nurse, panicky, who is lifting you from my embrace.
"I'm putting her in her basin, at the foot of your bed. You've worked hard and need to rest."
"Can't I hold her?"
"The bed is too narrow honey, she might fall."
I glare at the nurse, wondering why she is on the defensive.
"You can hold her after you rest."
And that was that.
I am too tired to fight.
She places you in the basin, and I lie down. Only once she leaves, I get up and lay on my stomach so that my face is right above you. I can't keep my eyes off you. And even when I cried again, I admired you still.
January 27th, 1979. Serena Benson.
It's the first night of your life. You sleep in the plastic crib and I can't stop watching you.
I can't stop thinking about him. He haunts me, Olivia. I don't want to suffer anymore, but I can't stop the pain. But at least I have you, right? How do I feel? I'm not sure. My head is still spinning. It all happened so fast.
It's so strange because up until this morning, I hated you. What were you, but a reminder of everything I've suffered? What were you but another way for God to punish me? Your eyes are brown. Mine are green. Brown, and green. Not the same. My hair is blonde, yours is a dark shade of brown. Blond, and brown. Not the same. When you grow up, you'll probably look like him. I don't know what I'll do, then.
But like I always say, each thing will come, in it's own time.
It's you and me against the world, my darling,
You and me against the whole world.