when he sucks you deep sometimes you're nothing but meat

The nurse at the hospital asks if there's anyone you want to call. Mother? Sister? Friend? When you've shot down all three choices, she asks if you want to talk to the social worker.

You do not. Her name is Janet, she is from the west coast, and she has worked here eight months. You know this because you were the one they called in to train her. Irony at its finest.

You tell the nurse no, it's not necessary, can we please just do this. She looks down at her clipboard and she says that she's required to read all this legal information to patients but given the circumstances, maybe she'll just skip it. Or I could recite it to myself, you think, and the whole thing seems so absurd that you have to stifle an inappropriate urge to laugh.

The nurse's name is Danielle. You are on a first name basis with her, just like you are with all five other people that come in and out of that small room off to the side of the ER, and it is the most exquisitely awkward reunion possible for everyone involved. Cruelly familiar, like a well rehearsed play where you've been removed from your role without notice, but fortunately you know the script well enough to play any part flawlessly. You can be the perfect victim, the perfect witness, because you've never done anything by half measures and that's sure as hell not going to change now. Not even when the florescent lights are so bright and you just want to close your eyes, just for a moment, but they all know you and now they know you like this and you can't let them down by making this any harder than it has to be.

While you stick to your lines, everyone else has some catching up to do to get on your level. They try, and you couldn't be more thankful for their composure in this sick fucking nightmare of a situation, but no one is able to keep the horror out of their voice when they tell you they are so, so sorry. They are all so sorry and there's nothing you can say back that will even begin to tell them what you're feeling so you just bite your cracked lower lip and nod.

You are so very tired.

on days like this it starts me thinking

Brian was hovering. There was no other way to put it. The first two days home from the hospital were a haze, in and out of a dreamless sleep, but after forty eight hours you have pulled yourself together enough to realize that he is right there. All the fucking time.

"You need to go back to work," you announce to him, and he opens his mouth to protest but catches himself before he starts to speak. You know best, he agrees, and you wait a beat but there is nothing to argue. Huh. You had expected him to fight you on that, and now you don't know if you should thank him for understanding or punch him in the face for assuming any little disagreement would cause you to shatter. "But only because I've pulled some strings and they're moving me to daytime for a month," he says, and it is enough to stave off any punching fantasies for the time being.

Besides, you're not completely alone. You had broken character only once in your otherwise flawless hospital performance, when you had gotten up to head into the bathroom and suddenly felt like your legs were about to give way. Brian had reached out to steady you, and before you could even stop to think you had very nearly decked him. Word somehow spread, the way good news always does, because a doctor came by a little later to ever so carefully remind you that you were going to need help with a lot of things, not least of all tending to the assortment of wounds you could barely reach. He cleared his throat a few times before continuing, obviously as happy as you were to be having this conversation. "Maybe it would be best if you had a nurse stopping by to help you out." A female, he added pointedly. You narrowed your eyes at him, wishing he would just fucking say what you knew you were both thinking, but there was really no acceptable alternative to his proposal. He had you there and he knew it.

Enter Alice. She was a refreshingly no-nonsense woman, and if she felt pity or shock or horror when she saw you, she never let it show. She let you handle everything you were physically capable of on your own so you didn't feel so helpless, warned you that 'I won't lie, this will hurt like a son of a bitch' without the slightest doubt in her voice as to whether you could handle it, and most importantly she never, ever asked if you 'wanted to talk'. Thank God for Alice, you thought. If only everyone in your life would just take their cues from her script.

Socorro was the Brazilian cleaning lady who came every afternoon. Brian claimed she had worked for him for a year, and you highly, highly doubted any story of his that began with 'So I have a cleaning lady,' but you hadn't been able to force the truth from him yet and Socorro conveniently didn't speak enough English to confess what he was really putting her up to. In the only language the two of you shared, a combo of broken Spanish and hand gestures, you tried to explain to her that you really didn't need a babysitter. She just shrugged her shoulders, making the 'I can't hear you' sign and going back to doing whatever it was that she did every day, which seemed to consist of moving things in the living room from one pile to another. She never asked how you got into your current state, but she didn't act like she was particularly bothered by it either, and you told yourself that was the only reason you allowed her to stay. Because honestly, you were fine.

Honestly.

I shaved every place where you've been, boy

You don't shower any more. Not since the night of the impulsive haircut, when afterward you undressed and stood in front of the mirror, forcing yourself to look for the first time. You mentally catalogued your injuries, confirming what you already knew from the grim frowns on the faces of every fucking person who got to see the whole disgusting mess for themselves at the hospital. No more. Now you fill the bathtub up as far as possible before gingerly sinking down into the water, letting it blanket everything from the neck down.

Brian is amused by this ritual. He doesn't know. He hasn't seen.

By some miracle, both your legs are almost completely unmarred below the knee. Every night you lift them up out of the water one at a time, quietly marveling at the sight. The skin is pale and smooth and you take your time shaving, so careful not to miss a spot even if it means contorting yourself into a position that leaves you almost breathless from the pain. Then you watch your toes, the way they can bend and flex freely in a way that nothing else can right now, and it's something so beautiful and sacred and normal that tears prick at the back of your eyes every time.

Socorro sits at the kitchen counter during her so called lunch break and turns her fingernails into blue-green-grey works of art. Brian says she worked at a salon back in Bahia, at least until she hired a coyote to take her across the border and escape an abusive husband. You wonder if she truly feels safe now, if there are some things in life that you can never really run far enough to free yourself from. When you see the concentration with which she wields the brush, you get it, the need for that one tiny something that stays the same when nothing else will ever be quite the same again. "Linda," you comment, and she looks up from her masterpiece and beams.

One day you let her paint your toenails cherry red. It is an understatement to say this is not your color, but it is something bright and new and when you see your perfect toes reflected in the water, you smile.

Can't forget the things you never said

It arrives innocently enough, white and yellow daisies in a carefully neutral container, but you inhale sharply and your eyes narrow as you pick up the offending item. "Don't fuck with me," you mutter to it in warning. You rip the card out of the tiny envelope and your suspicions are confirmed. '-E' is all it said, apparently all he could summon the balls to come up with after a couple of years to work on it. Flower child, you hear in your head, a nickname he had given you years ago after he got his hands on an unfortunate old photo of you at some ridiculous themed sorority party, daisies stuck in your hair. Flower child. You can hear it clearly despite the time that's passed, can see him smirking at you over the computer monitor, just trying to irritate you enough to break up the monotony of those days that consisted of nothing but slogging through endless piles of paperwork.

How the hell did he get your address, you wonder, and you can see that goddamn smirk again and hear him make some crack about how he may have given up the badge, but they let him keep the detective skills. Fuck that. He didn't get to be cute with you. He didn't get to choose now, of all times, to shove his way back into your life with private jokes and flowers and one fucking capital letter, as if...as if what? What were you supposed to do, call and ask if whatever lies- because that's all they were- whatever goddamn lies about you he had blustered his way into finding had made him decide all of a sudden that you wouldn't survive without him? No. No way.

"Don't FUCK with me!" you repeat, but this time you're shouting, you're throwing the planter across the room and listening to it shatter, and soon you've smashed everything in the sink but it's still not enough and it's just not going to be.

he likes killing you after you've died

Food starts showing up in the apartment, bags and containers from pretty much every restaurant on the eastern seaboard that delivers. You are puzzled. Brian explains that 'in polite society, when something happens and people don't know what the hell else to do, they send food.'

You mimic kicking him in the shins with your perfect toes because really, he's the one telling you about polite society? "But it's unnecessary. There are two fully capable people living here, it's not like we can't-"

"They're trying to *help*. And when people don't know what to do, they go back to basic instincts. Food, sex, oxygen- food just happens to be the only one you can have delivered to your door. Legally," he adds.

You still don't get it, but that doesn't stop the food from coming. Unluckily for you, the smell of all but the blandest of things sends you dry heaving- but at least everyone else who comes through your door eats very well. Silver linings and all that. You keep crackers or some other bearable item within arms reach at all times and hope that it keeps anyone from noticing that you never actually eat any of it.

You don't sleep much more than you eat, at least not since you started dreaming. The doctor tried to push sleeping pills on you, but you refused. Not when you can barely stomach the painkillers as it is. They are an orange liquid, thick and sticky sweet and you know that had to be all Brian's suggestion but you still don't have the words to thank him.

He is trying so hard. You know he must be tired of getting up with you half a dozen times a night because you start screaming or crying or hitting your head against the wall- thank God that last one only happened once. Your dreams are crowded, full of your parents and suspects that walked and everyone else who has ever wronged you, and you put them all in their place but at the end it always comes down to you and *him*. You can feel the coldness of the gun against the back of your neck and hear his voice next to your ear and oh god this cannot be happening again I'm not going to make it out this time and not that, nonono just anything but not that...

Then you're jolted awake again, and you race into the bathroom to throw up and cry and hyperventilate until your body just gives out. Brian's waiting outside the locked door, not saying a word, until you come out and then he patiently follows you back to bed so you can do it all over again.

By morning you are exhausted.

Being touched is still barely tolerable. Alice says things are getting better, and day by day she points out the signs that you're starting to heal. On the surface, at least. There are still some deeper burns that bring tears to your eyes if you so much as brush them with your fingertips, but you know it'll be a long process. Time and a good plastic surgeon will take away the worst of it, one of the doctors had told you- as if 'the worst' of what you had been through was something that could be repaired by a skin graft. You could have slapped him right then. You probably should have.

You instinctively tense up if anyone gets too close to you. Alice knows this, and she is careful to announce her every move before it happens. You lie and say it's not really necessary, but she shrugs you off and refuses, asking how else you're ever going to manage on your own if she doesn't walk you through it step by step. Once again, thank God for Alice. You could just hug her- well, someday.

Things with Brian are a process. You hold his hand at night, the only form of physical affection you can consistently tolerate. He reaches his arm out from his side of the bed and you clasp hands as he promises you that you can do this. It does nothing to keep the nightmares away, but you can't imagine ever even falling asleep in the first place without the feeling of your fingers intertwined with his.

In the evening you sit on opposite ends of the couch and he flips channels on the TV while you pretend to read, as if you actually have the mental focus to do something like that. Subconsciously at first, you start shifting closer to him day by day until one night you look over at each other and realize you have made it all the way to the middle. He grins but says nothing, and from that point on it becomes a bit of a game, inch by inch until finally one evening you're dozing off with your head leaning against his shoulder.

Yesterday afternoon you made out like sexually frustrated teenagers for at least an hour. You tried to pull away at first because you know this is as far as it's going to go and you're probably driving the poor guy insane, but he knows exactly what you're doing without you having to say a word and he's not having it. "S'okay, Liv, that's what I've got my right hand for." Charming, hon. You roll your eyes but you don't stop, and it's a strictly above the shoulders affair but it's so nice for once to feel like a normal human being and not a walking trauma case.

Still, you're not that disappointed when the phone finally interrupts, forcing him back to the courthouse for the rest of the afternoon. It was enough for one day, and after he leaves you lie back down on the couch and smile, eyes closed as the breeze from an open window brushes over your face. It's progress.

at least when you cry now he can't even hear you

Brian knocks in your predetermined pattern, the 'code' that had been invented to warn you who was at the door, before walking in and dropping his keys on the table. You shiver at the clanking sound. He sits down on the other side of the couch with coffee in hand and turns to look at you expectantly. "Hi."

He does this all the time, like maybe he thinks this is the moment you're going to have some big breakthrough. It's not. "They still haven't found that plane," you say with a nod toward the TV.

You are rewarded with a loud sigh as he gets up and walks away. "You know, Socorro saw a couple of pieces of glass on the floor the other day." Damn. Sweeping with only one good hand was harder than you thought.

"I dropped a glass. I thought I got it all."

"Well, you must have dropped at least three, because the pieces were different colors."

"So now you have an informant? Good job, officer."

You know you are being a flat-out bitch, that there can't be anyone on earth more difficult to try and take care of than you. The man is a living saint. You have seen over the years that it's not just the victim who suffers, that it affects everyone around them in their own way. You know all these things, you're the fucking expert, but all your remaining rationality went to shit when you got the call from Barba earlier that morning. He has been your angel in a designer suit for the last few weeks, dealing with one ridiculous ploy after another from Lewis and his lawyer, and today it was a demand that the judge overturn the order that kept them from being able to make copies of your medical records and the statement you gave at the hospital. Neither of you were under any illusions as to his motive. It would take about thirty fucking seconds for the whole thing to be 'accidentally' leaked to the media, whether it harmed his case or not, because that's not what this is about. He wasn't worried about going to prison, not when he'd walked so many times before. For him, this was all a grand opportunity to continue the torment he had already started.

Barba thought the judge was on your side for this one. But you still need to prepare yourself for the likelihood of an open court, he warned. He was doing his damnedest to keep it closed but they were pushing back hard on that one. Of course they were. Open court meant a chance for him to display his handiwork to the world, to force you to recount every little detail while he looked on. You were sure he would be delighted to take the stand himself just in case he felt you hadn't been explicit enough or humiliated enough. He was probably getting off on the anticipation right then, that fucking bastard piece of shit...

You had cut the call short, stumbling and bumping into one side of the wall and then another until you collapsed onto the bed. The room seemed to be spinning around you and everything was on fire. Your whole body was shaking uncontrollably, one leg trembling so violently that you would actually be limping for two days afterward, and it felt like electric shocks over and over again.

The logical thing to do would be to clue in your poor long suffering boyfriend, but you're frustrated and he's frustrated and you've already had one breakdown today, so you pretend to ignore him as he leans against the dining room table and talks to the back of your head. Yeah, yeah. You are the world's most emotionally shut off person, you can't admit when you need help, and you push away anyone who dares to try and get close to you. You've got everything bottled up inside and it's not healthy, you keep pretending everything is fine and it's not. You're not fine.

You press your lips together in a thin line and hold back from saying that you know all this already, this is what you pay your therapist for. He doesn't seem to get it, the difference between 'can't' and 'don't want to'. You want to, and it's not even stubbornness that's holding you back anymore.

It's the fear that once you start, you won't be able to stop.

He mumbles something to himself and you can't understand what he's saying but the exhaustion in his voice needs no explanation. "You know. If it weren't for listening to you talk in your sleep, I *really* wouldn't have a clue what's going on with you."

You had no idea. "And what the hell am I saying, exactly?"

He rubs his eyes again. "That's not my point, Liv, the point is-" and you're not hearing what his point is because the blood is draining from your face and your heartbeat seems to be pounding in your head and all you can think of is what does he know, oh god what did I say, maybe he knows everything and he's known all along and fuckfuckfuck how dare your subconscious betray you like that?

You can't breathe. "I'm not having this conversation with you. Just...you're going to be late for work. Just go. Just leave me alone. Please."

He walks back into the kitchen and you storm down the hall- well, as much as you can storm in your present condition- slamming the bathroom door behind you. You know you are making him feel like an asshole and you know he doesn't deserve it and you know you are being completely childish, but right now you Don't. Fucking. Care.

A few minutes later you hear him knock quietly. "I'll be back at eleven," he says through the closed door. "Just...shit. I'll have my phone on me, call if you-" He paused. "Yeah. See you later."

Silence.

back on the street now

You're in a park, that's all you know. Most likely somewhere in New Jersey. You had gotten into the car without a plan, steering erratically with your one good arm and being a general menace to the fine motorists of the city, losing track of how many of them had flipped you off after number seventeen. Maybe you returned the gesture, you don't remember. You just kept driving until Manhattan had long ago faded into the rearview mirror and you ended up here, which seemed as good of a place as any to turn the car off, let your head fall against the steering wheel, and scream with everything you have. You scream and swear and hit the dashboard and sob as loudly as you want to until your throat is raw and you just don't have the strength anymore, and then you take a deep shuddering breath before pulling out your phone to find the way home.

Whether you feel better or worse now, you're not sure.

You are so very tired.

Back at the empty apartment once again, you reach for your phone and dial, swallowing hard and tilting your head back because you are so fucking done with crying for today. When the voice on the other end answers, you have to interrupt to keep from losing your nerve. "Yeah. I...no, no, listen. Shut up and just...no. Not over the phone. Just get here now." A breath. "Please. I need you here."