The Stranger in the Mirror.
I lean forward, resting my arms on the stainless steel table as my partner escorts the suspect out of interrogation. I take a ragged breath as my arms shake under the weight of my pent-up rage.
I almost killed that man. If my partner had not stepped between us, I think I would have murdered that man with my bare hands. I think back to that moment, when I realized my hands were firmly clasped around his throat, squeezing with all my strength as my anger and hurt pounded in my head like a war drum.
I look up at the two-way mirror. I do not recognize the face staring back at me—the face harrowed by countless hours spent in this very room, with some of the darkest souls in New York City. This stranger stares numbly back at me, a soul deadened from witnessing a thousand atrocities that no human should ever witness.
I furrow my brows as I continue to inspect this stranger. The face is mottled by rage; the eyes burn hatred and anger, fueled by the thought that this perp just might slip through my grasp.
I try not to let things like this get to me. I try to remain untouchable, to be a strong, immovable force that nothing can break down. I try to build a wall around my soul, but it seems that the wall works only to keep things in, rather than keep things out. It keeps in my anger, keeps in my sense of abandonment and injustice.
I look down at my hands. The very hands that were wrapped around a man's throat less than five minutes ago. I am suddenly filled with fear. I scare myself with my anger. I scare myself with the person I have become. I consider leaving this job for the thousandth time, but I know I never will. This is more than a job. It is my life.
I turn to inspect the four dark walls of the interrogation room. These four walls, connected to the entire Special Victims Unit Suite, form the protective shell that is my sanctuary. Here I can channel my anger into something productive. Here I can stop another child from having a life like mine. Here I can change something for the better. Here I can come to terms with myself. Here I can find a way to carry on each day, and find a way to sleep at night.
Without this place, I don't think I could survive. It is as much a part of me as my DNA, like a missing part of my genetic code. Most detectives only have a short stint in SVU, but I never left. And I never will. I would not know how to live; I would not know how to retain my sanity or control my anger.
Sometimes I hate myself for being so weak. For letting this affect me. I'm a seasoned detective now; I should be able to handle this. But I think back to Dr. Huang's words. If there ever comes a day that this doesn't affect me, then I need to leave. So I am momentarily thankful for my emotions. It means I haven't lost touch with reality, or my humanity.
I suddenly sense that someone is behind the glass. I look back up, acknowledging the presence behind my reflection.
"Are you OK, Liv?"
Cragen's voice is soft, carrying the slightest hint of concern. I think that if I could have chosen my father, I would choose Don Cragen.
"I'm fine," I sniff, straightening up and moving around the table. I walk into the adjoining room, where the Captain is waiting for me with anxious eyes.
"Perhaps you need to take some time off," he suggests gently, trying not to upset me. "You seem to be taking this a little harder than usual."
"I'm fine," I repeat, but my reply is softer than last time.
My partner enters the room, "He's back in holding, Cap'n."
"How's he doin'?" Cragen asks. I'm certain he's mentally preparing from the flood of calls that my outburst will incite.
"He'll survive," Elliot gives me a wink. Cragen is not amused by my partner's nonchalant reply, but he doesn't comment. He merely leaves the room.
Elliot loses his smile. His intense eyes focus on me, "Seriously, though—y'okay?"
"I just…" I take a deep breath, searching for the words to explain these turbulent feelings that are crashing through my chest like a hurricane. Finally, I whisper, "He's just like my father."
El just nods in understanding, wrapping his arm around me in a show of camaraderie, "C'mon. I'll buy you a cup of coffee."
"I'd prefer alcohol," I mutter. Elliot gives a deep chuckle.
"Only if you promise not to get in a bar fight," he replies, gently guiding me back to the squad room.
I try not to smile at this, but I feel a grin creeping onto my face. I pull my coat on, wrapping my scarf securely around my neck.
Fin appears beside me, his hands in his pockets. "You alright?"
Despite my aggravation at being asked that for the 50th time in the last ten minutes, I can't help but feel grateful. Grateful that I have people who care enough to hover over me like mother hens; grateful that I have friends who will take me out for a drink after a hard day; grateful to have a place to belong.
After a lifetime of being tossed around like an unwanted toy, I have finally found a place where I am accepted. A place where I am loved. A place where I belong.
~*~
The sharp winter wind greets El and I as we leave One Police Plaza, stinging our cheeks. I give a shiver at the cold, burrowing my face deeper into my scarf. I take one last look at the building—my home and my work, my life and my death, my sanctuary and my hell.
I think back to the man who sits in holding. He'll stay there for a few more hours; unless we find something new, he'll walk. But I can't think about that now. I have to learn how to live outside of these brick walls. I have to put aside all the hurt and anger.
"Until tomorrow," I whisper, turning to hurry after Elliot's retreating form.
~Le Fin