She angrily flicks the yellow bic lighter over, and over until she gets a spark. Finally she sees a flame. She touches the end of the cigarette to the crest of the flame. She allows the flame to dissipate as she watches the cigarette burn. She stares at the end of the light cigarette for several moments deciding her next move. She taps the ash on the edge of an empty wine bottle. Two puffs from the end she can't help but wonder. She wonders what memories pressing the end of the butt to her skin will dredge up. She blinks realizing with the day that she's had it probably doesn't matter. She presses the cigarette to her lips, and takes a drag, instead. She finishes the cigarette, and drops it into the bottom of the empty wine bottle.
The wine bottle sits in the center of the table surrounded by a lighter, a carton of cigarettes, a pack of matches, a half empty bottle of bourbon, a set of keys, a cell phone, a gun, and a couple of bottles of pills. She grabs another cigarette, and strikes a match this time. The smell of a burning match floods her with memories. She drops the match into the wine bottle. She opens a bottle of pills, and pours some into the palm of her hand. She grabs the bottle of bourbon, and takes a swig. She tosses the pills in her mouth, and swallows. She takes a couple more from another bottle. She takes those ones too.
She stares at her gun as the end of the cigarette burns. She takes a puff, and looks at the full magazine sitting next to her gun. It's her back up. The one she no longer carries. She doesn't feel safe no matter how many guns she carries. She puts out the cigarette, and discards it. She grabs the gun, and the magazine. She taps the magazine into the gun. She removes the safety, and racks a bullet into the chamber. She exhales. She presses the gun to her head, her finger rests outside of the trigger guard. She reaches for the trigger, and is interrupted. She hears fists beating against her door. She clears the weapon, and removes the magazine, placing them both on the table, after clearing the round from the chamber.
"Open the door!"
She rises to her feet, and moves towards the door. She doesn't stop to check the peephole. She pulls the door open. Her partner stares at her, in confusion.
"The door isn't even locked? Olivia it's after midnight."
"Nick go home."
"No."
"Just go home," she exhales.
"What have you been doing?"
"Just leave me alone!" She shouts.
"You smell like alcohol."
"Is that a crime?"
"And cigarettes," he adds.
"Nick, pleas just go," she begs as her eyes plead with him to stay.
She keeps herself between him, and the door.
"This is not going to fly," he tells her.
"Go to Hell!"
He pushes the door open, and rushes into the apartment. She flies after him, slamming the door closed behind them.
"What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to kill yourself."
"Nick, just go."
He stands in front of the coffee table. He sees the booze on the table, and the cigarettes, and firearm, and matches. He turns to his partner. She's wearing a pair of sweatpants, and a t-shirt. Her mascara is smeared all over her face, and her hair is pulled into a sloppy bun.
"Liv don't do this. Don't go down this road."
"I can't do this anymore," she tells him with a flat affect.
"The only thing that is missing from this party is some cocaine."
"Nick, why can't you just..."
He cuts her off, "Just what? Just let you go? Hell no."
"Please, just go."
"I have called you fifteen times. You won't answer my calls. You won't me, you won't answer Rollins, or even Fin."
"My phone was destroyed," she reminds him.
"I know. I have been calling your phone here."
"I..."
"Liv what are you doing to yourself?"
"I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do this anymore. I can't go to work every single damn day, and tell people it's going to be okay. I can't tell them just get a therapist you'll get through it. I can't live a lie. It isn't okay. It is never okay," the tears begin to stream down her face.
"What have you taken?"
"In the last hour?"
"Today?"
"Does it matter?"
"Tell me!" He yells.
"Some antidepressants, a few Percocet, a few ambien, half a bottle of bourbon, and at least an entire bottle of wine."
"Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"Why does it matter? Why do you care what I do?"
He wraps his arms around her, "Because I care about you. I don't want this to destroy you."
"It's a little bit late for that," she insists.
"Not if I can help it," he argues, squeezing her tighter.
"Let me go," she pounds her fists against his chest.
"No, look at me."
She tries to wriggle away, "No."
"Look at me, and I will let you go."
She turns her head, and looks at him, "What?!"
"I am not going to let you do this to yourself. I am not ever going to let you go. Dammit! You are my partner."
"I am broken."
"Only if you let yourself be."
"I have tried being okay, it doesn't work."
"Sit down," he lets go of her.
She takes a seat on the couch. He takes a seat next to her, "This has to stop. I know that you hurt. I know that you're angry. I get that. You drown your sorrow in a bottle of booze, and put yourself in a casket by throwing a bottle of pills on top of it, then he wins."
"Don't you get it? He already won. No matter what I do I can't get away from him. He is in my head. I can't even get away from him in my sleep."
"He can't ever hurt you again. He's gone. He's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."
"The damage is already done."
"Killing you doesn't solve anything. It just takes one more decent human being out of this world who gives a damn about people. Do you know where some of those people would be without you?"
"I don't care, anymore."
"That is a lie, and you know it."