This story is very personal to me, I struggle daily with urge to cut even at 22 years old; and there's rarely a day that goes by that suicide doesn't cross my mind. Though yes, I do know that's not the answer to my problems. I wrote this one night when the self-harm urges were strong, and it really helped me to move pass them without negative effects. I think it's almost therapeutic in some ways to see people you admire in the same situations as yourself (even if you are the ones writing it).
With that being said this story contains MAJOR trigger warnings for self-harm and cutting. Some of it is and will be graphic. As will be the thoughts going through the heads of our favorite characters. PLEASE don't read if this will upset you or offend you. Again this was a way to help me with this problem and I'm hoping it can help someone else too.
The beginning of this story is VERY early Barson. I'm thinking along the lines of "we've been friends for years, but the feelings are there, first date last week" Barson. But their relationship will have ups and downs and will continue to grow in every way. Unfortunately for this story I couldn't add Noah...at least not yet, we will see where it goes. William Lewis has happened but that's about the extent of the shows time line that I'm following, Olivia has not seen Dr. Lindstrom. There is a change I will add recognizable events later on in the story.
The brunette detective slammed the door to her one bedroom apartment; she unclipped her badge, removed her gun from its location on her hip, and placed both on the counter. She had long since cut her cell phone off and honestly she couldn't remember where it was, nor did she really care. She pulled a wine glass from the cabinet but instead of filling it with her favorite red, she picked up the bourbon left behind by her ADA during their last in home meeting. Pouring the wine glass half full she grimaced as she chugged a gulp before cherishing the way the burning liquid felt against her throat. Her goal was to get drunk as quick as possible. The quicker she was drunk, the quicker she stopped feeling anything. And nothing was better than everything.
Taking the final drink from her glass she filled it again, carrying the glass and the bottle with her to the living room where she sat both on the table and collapsed onto the couch. Before she could stop them pent up tears from the last six months flowed down her cheeks. She had spent so much of her life being the strong willed and fearless detective that everyone thought she was; but deep down she was still that scared little girl from her childhood.
Stopping the tears momentarily she chuckled slightly to herself, she had found her mother in this same position a hundred times: clothes and hair a mess, eyes red rimmed from tears, smelling like alcohol. Maybe she was more like her mom than she cared to notice before now.
The tears came again, these held in much longer than months. These were thirty plus years overdue. Her hand moved to cheek, feeling the soft wet skin underneath. She could still feel the sting from her mother's hand.
Her right hand moved to grasp her left wrist. No one could see the scars anymore, and if she didn't know they were there, she wasn't sure that she would even be able to feel them. Lifting up her shirt, her hands then moved to her abdomen. Under her hand where at least fifty still noticeable scars, and probably hundreds that had faded over the years. Scars that to others she had played off as a work accident, but ones that she knew told a story of that scared little girl.
Her fingers softly ran against the lines again and again. That was how she had survived. She tried to push that part of her life away and not even Elliott had ever known that she used to cut herself. She had never been big on talking to other people about her problems, so that was the only way she could find to cope with her own insecurities and her drunken mother.
She hadn't thought about doing it in years, probably not since she had received her detective shield. Even when she saw victims with the scars, her goal was to get them the help she never received. She would push away her own memories. Locking them up in a place she had hoped to never open again.
Foregoing the glass, she lifted the bottle of amber liquid to her lips and drank until her eyes teared up from the burn. Coughing she placed the bottle back on the table. Images began to flash through her mind, cases after case, child after child, victim after victim. The ones she could never find an answer too, the ones that never got to come home because she wasn't fast enough. She blamed herself for every one of them. And she would until the day she died.
Unable to control the anger piling in the pit of her stomach she screamed as she chucked her wine class against the wall, listing as it shattered, falling into pieces on her hard wood floor. Tears streamed down her face once again, though this time she didn't even notice them as she crossed them room in four strides before dropping down on to her knees in front of the pile of shattered glass.
Picking up a small piece, she inspected it careful. She knew the consequences of her actions. She knew what would happen if anyone found out. She knew ten ways that would be easier to feel the pain, but this was her comfort zone. This is where she would reconnect with the little girl she was so long ago sitting in the bathtub with blood pouring from freshly cut wounds.
Holding the shard tightly in her hand, she flipped her left arm over, and started to run the edge across her tan skin, small lines of blood already running down her arm. She didn't think about what was going to happen in ten minutes or how she was going to explain long sleeve shirts in the middle of July; but quickly those small lines turned into hacking cuts. The blade ripping against any skin she could find, tears blocking her ability to see the puddle of crimson she had created on the floor. Her ears drummed with the sounds of the cries of victims begging her for help, parent's sobs who had found out their babies would never come back home, her ten year old self pleading as she cowered under the hand of her mother, and her own recent pleas for her life under the hand of William Lewis. Over the voices she didn't hear the banging on her front door.
"Olivia!" the voice was too close, it was too real. Her head snapped up as she stopped the assault on her body. Tears continued to cascade down her cheeks as she finally realized what had happened. Looking at the bloody mess she had become she dropped the shard of her used to be wine glass before attempting to run from her best friend. No one was supposed to see her like this. Not even him.
Whether it was the mix of the alcohol, the loss of blood, or the completely exhausted state that her body was in she only made it a step before she felt herself falling again, though this time she felt a strong pair of arms wrapped around her waist and lowered her to the ground. Wrapping her arm up in his dress shirt he had already begun to take off, he held her tight.
He knew she needed to see a doctor and probably even needed stitches from the amount of blood he could see in the floor. But at the moment all the Harvard educated attorney could focus on was the growing dampness he felt against the white cotton tee shirt he was left wearing. Though he didn't know if it was caused from the racking sobs still escaping the dark headed lady buried in his arms; or it was from the tears cascading down his own cheeks.
He wasn't sure how long that sat there or when they had both stopped crying. He looked down, Olivia was asleep though he could feel her grip on his shirt tighten as she dreamed. He ran his hands through her hair, brushing the matted pieces from her head and neck. He leaned down pressing a kiss to her cheek he softly whispered in her ear, occasional tears continuing to fall from his eyes at the thought of his best friend hurting.
"I'm so sorry Liv. I should have known….Debería haber sabido."
He didn't know how many times he repeated those words both to her and to himself. He reached out placing a hand on her injured arm. She had curled it under her, almost as if she was trying to hide it from him.
He knew she had woken up by the change in her breathing, but she kept her eyes closed and her head pressed against his heart. He held her arm softly, trying not to make the pain any worse then what he was sure she was feeling now, as he unwrapped it from what used to be his favorite dress shirt.
Rafael was almost positive his heart stopped as he pulled the cloth away. The bleeding had stopped and had begun to clot. But he could see more dried blood than he could her beautiful tan skin. He tried to examine it the way they were sitting in the floor, but he knew that the only way he was going to be able to see it clearly was to move them both to the couch.
Using strength most didn't know the ADA had, he picked them both up out of the floor as he quickly thanked himself for the in-home gym he had bought last year. He carried Liv to the couch, his heart breaking as she spoke her first words since he walked in the apartment.
Her hand tightened again against the cotton of his tee shirt her voice was barely above a whisper, but he didn't miss the begging in her voice, "Please, don't go."
He pulled the small end table in front of the couch, laying her arm easily against it. Giving him a table to work from; before he allowed their eyes to meet. Giving himself time to try to appear stronger than he felt.
"Never. I promise."