A/N: Okay, so there's been a couple mentions of Rolivia romance in the reviews. Let me just say, I ship it to the hardest of cores and my little gay heart would explode with happiness to see them in love. Unfortunately, that's not happening in this fic. I started out thinking it would, but the darker things got, the more I felt like it was the wrong vehicle for introducing a love story. I'd hoped putting "Rolivia friendship" in the summary would clear that up. I'm sorry for the confusion and I hope you'll stick with this fic to the end (which is only a couple chapters away *cries*). Bad news aside, chapter 10 is 100% Rolivia friendship! And I'm not making any promises, but let's just say I have big ideas that go beyond this fic. (But keep in mind it took me almost four months to write this. :)
"The most tender place in my heart is for strangers
I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous
Hangin' round the ceiling half the time
Hangin' round the ceiling half the time"
- NEKO CASE
CHAPTER 9: Damaged
Hospital corridors were sacred places after midnight. You could walk for miles in virtual silence, barely meeting up with fellow travelers. Your feet instinctively adopted a lighter tread, passing rooms veiled like confessionals. And the souls you did happen upon were often bowing their heads, whether in prayer, repose, grief, or labor.
Olivia didn't feel particularly holy, despite her raw, stripped-down attire. She had begged a robe—if a tent-sized periwinkle wrap could be called such—from one of the night shift nurses who hadn't been informed she was a flight risk, at least from the overnight ward. Her heart rate and respiration had returned to normal hours ago, freeing her from the confines of wires and tubes and bed. Now, it was just a matter of waiting. Waiting for morning, waiting for test results, waiting for the shadowy images in the corners of her mind to step into the light.
Waiting wasn't her strong suit.
She hadn't been raped, of that she was certain. There were no signs of forceable penetration or fluids on or near the genitals. He could have worn a condom—he had with the other victims—but Olivia chose to believe Rollins' proposed timetable of events: he'd never made it past the foreplay stage with her. Evidence of that lit up like glow worms on her naked flesh when the UV light had passed over her breasts. For the first time she could remember that day, she'd given into the urge to vomit as those luminescent flecks appeared.
Nurse Cinnamon had kept her word to work quickly and efficiently, but the whole process still took almost three hours. By the time it was finished, Olivia wanted to shed her skin entirely.
During a rebellious phase in high school, she'd befriended the class loner, a greasy-haired boy who stole his mother's cigarettes and kept dead rats in the freezer to feed his ball python, Zoso. Her mother detested snakes, so naturally Olivia had learned every gruesome detail she could about the creature, including its sloughing habits. Her favorite morsel of knowledge with which to torment Serena was that snakes also shed their eye caps. This turned the reptile's eyes a milky blue as it molted, impairing vision and making it prone to aggression.
Olivia knew precisely how Zoso must have felt all those years ago. Nurse Cinnamon's professionalism and empathy were beyond reproach, but the longer she'd stayed in the room, the surlier Olivia had become. People were being too nice to her, handling her with kid gloves—the nurse, Dr. Murphy, Amanda. It was exhausting. She needed to be around someone who didn't care about her well-being. Someone she could strike out at and sink her fangs into.
Someone who wanted her dead.
That's how she found herself wandering the floors of ICU at quarter to one in the morning. The lights were dimmed to a soft, dreamlike haze, and her disposable slippers whispered secrets against the faux marble tiling as she shuffled up to the nurses' station. She must have looked as spectral as she felt, because the plump nurse behind the desk started at the sight of her.
"Good night, child, you got to warn an old gal like me before you sneak up on her," the nurse said, fanning herself as if she might swoon from the scare. "Don't you know it's the witching hour?"
Olivia tried to hide the smile that tugged at her mouth. Somebody needed to lay off the caffeine. Also, no one had called her "child" in at least thirty years. "I'm sorry. There's no bell. And isn't the witching hour three o'clock?"
"Well, I don't know, Miss Smarty Pants, but whatever time it is, looks to me like your buns are supposed to be in bed." Harriet Spencer, R.N.—her name tag came into view as she moseyed closer—surveyed Olivia from tousled head to grip-soled toe. "Or did I miss the memo about letting patients traipse the halls at all hours? Where's your wheelchair?"
"I don't need one." Olivia held up her own credentials, a smug little grin breaking through.
"Why, excuse me, Lieutenant Smarty Pants," said Nurse Harriet, eyeing the police shield without so much as a flicker of surprise. This was one tough broad; that move usually had them shaking in their boots—or in this case, Crocs. "Fancy badge or not, you can still fall and conk that pretty noodle of yours, and then we'd all be in a heap of trouble."
Oh, boy. Olivia had gone hunting for a challenge, and it looked as though she'd found one: a sassy, gray-haired nurse wearing the same pair of Sally Jessy Raphael glasses she'd probably owned since 1987.
"Really, I'm fine. I'll be discharged in a few hours anyway." Olivia clipped the badge back on the belt of her robe. "I swear, if I fall and break something in the meantime, I won't sue you or the hospital."
"That's what they all say." Nurse Harriet fixed her with a long, hard look, like a stern librarian reprimanding a schoolchild who had forgotten to whisper. "What brings you to my ward, then?"
"I'm here to see a patient. Amelia Cole. She was brought in this afternoon with a gunshot wound to the abdomen."
"Visiting hours are 11AM to 8PM, Lieutenant. Are you family?"
"No, I..."
(am the reason she got kidnapped by a psychopath who killed her mother and raped her sister, and I'm probably also responsible for her having a baby with the serial killer/rapist who shot her.)
"...I just really need to see her," Olivia said, her voice and expression soft enough to be called ingratiating. Her fists remained clenched at her sides. "Please. I'm a friend. I've known her since she was a little girl. I need to make sure she's all right."
The stare-down lasted a few moments longer, but finally the nurse must have seen something sincere—and maybe a little desperate—in Olivia's face. She sighed and pointed to the corner room, where a faint mechanical glow lay just beyond the partially open doorway. "Room 703. You're the only visitor she's had, poor thing. Imagine being eighteen and not having a soul to depend on."
Lady, if you only knew, Olivia thought. But it wasn't worth the time she'd have to spend explaining herself. Besides, she had gotten what she came for. "Thank you," she said, leaning on the desk for support as she turned to go. Perhaps she wasn't quite as steady on her feet as she'd claimed. The room suddenly felt a million miles away.
"Hold on now, sugar." Rounding the desk, Nurse Harriet swooped in to take Olivia by the arm, guiding her gently forward. "Mind you, I'm only doing this because that poor little girl should know someone cares about her. And because I can tell you'll be a thorn in my side if I don't."
She patted Olivia's hand, taking some of the sting out of the words, and added, "But you can't stay long, you hear? Miss Cole needs to rest, and you look like you've been through the wringer yourself. I'll give you twenty minutes, then I'm coming in to get you. With a wheelchair."
Olivia didn't have the energy to argue, nor did she want to. Nurse Harriet's tough love was a nice switch from the careful way everyone else approached her, as if she were a wounded animal. "Twenty minutes," she agreed, holding onto the door jamb for a moment and gathering a deep breath into her lungs just because she could.
The room was dark, except for the unearthly red and blue light coming from the monitors around the bed, and a low-watt bulb above the headboard, no brighter than a book light. She considered flipping on the overheads, but decided against the harsh glare that would break the drowsy spell she'd drifted in on.
Unsure of why exactly, she paused to shut the door behind her. It latched in place with a resounding click.
(Look away, Amelia.)
She stood with her back against the closed door, unable to force her feet into action, yet drawn to the bed with an almost hungry compulsion. An internal tug of war kept her frozen in place, until Amelia suddenly coughed in her sleep. It was a feeble sound—that of a sickly child kept home from school—and it made Olivia go to her like an anxious mother.
If the girl hadn't just stirred, Olivia would have thought she was already dead. Even in the dull lamplight from the headboard, which illuminated the crown of her head like a dirty halo, she was abnormally pale and clammy-looking. Her hair, once striking and perfectly cultivated to her bohemian style, now hung in stringy raspberry strands across the white pillow. She seemed deflated somehow, as if the hole in her stomach had released enough air and fluid to physically diminish her. She looked every bit the child she still was.
Olivia hated her. It came on quickly and without a clear point of origin—seconds ago she had no feelings one way or the other towards the girl—but raged with an intensity she hadn't experienced since beating William Lewis half to death with the metal rod. She had risked everything for this girl. She'd told the world she was a liar and put her entire career on the line; she'd delivered herself into the hands of the monster who nearly destroyed her, body and soul; she'd fucking volunteered to be raped so Amelia Cole wouldn't have to go through the degradation. And how did the little bitch repay her? By feeding her to another monster.
But not without taking a few bites for herself.
Leaning down till their faces were inches apart, Olivia whispered, "I should smother you with that fucking pillow. See how you like not being able to breathe."
Blips from the monitors were Amelia's only response. She lay there, waxen and still, oblivious to the hostility that seethed above her.
"Or maybe shove something nasty in your mouth and let you choke on it. I'm sure there's a filthy rag around here somewhere. I saw a janitor trolley by one of the bathrooms on my way up—how about I go find a nice, juicy toilet sponge to stuff down your throat?"
Olivia brought her lips close to the girl's ear. "Yeah, I remember what you did to me, you two-faced back-stabbing cunt. You lied to me. You drugged me. Tied me up, put things in my mouth. Held a fucking razor to my throat. I think you even rubbed off on me like a panting, rutting dog at some point.
"You're just as bad as he is. Worse, maybe. At least he didn't pretend to be my friend first. At least he didn't use his child as bait. You know, I was actually worried about you? Jesus. I felt guilty that I hadn't kept in touch. The truth was, I didn't want to see you. You brought back too many memories. I knew that every time I saw your face, I'd feel his hands all over me. His cock pressed against my ass. I was going to stand there and let him put it in me, for Christ's sake. For you, Millie. All for you.
"I'd smell his blood on me. His brains. Don't tell me you've forgotten that smell. It took me weeks to get rid of it, and I still can't eat oysters anymore. The coppery taste, the squishy texture. I wasn't all that fond of them to begin with, but it would've been nice not to have discovered their similarity to the insides of Lewis' head while I was on a date. I spent the rest of the night puking my guts out, and I couldn't even explain why to the guy I was with.
"But then, I never could talk to men about that sort of thing. Cassidy tried to get me to open up about what happened that first time with Lewis, and I just shut him down. I never told him... well, there were a lot of things I never told him. I guess I wanted to protect him, as strange as that sounds. He screwed whores—once while I sat their listening with my partner—and God knows what else, and I still felt the need to preserve his innocence."
Olivia laughed aloud into the darkness. "What is it with me and this need to rescue everyone? I don't know why I even bother. They either wind up like you, or they desert me in the end. Elliot left me. He was maybe the one person in all the world who I could tell this stuff to, and he just walked away. Never even checked in on me after the Lewis nightmare. Hell, he's never even met my son...
"That's a lie, though. That I would say any of this to him. I never told him what happened to me in the basement with Lowell Harris. He asked once, and I played it off as nothing. I thought he'd push a little more, but he just let it go. I guess he wanted to respect my space, or whatever. I wonder if he would've done the same if it'd been Kathy or one of his girls on the floor of that basement? You think? No, you're right, he would've torn Harris apart. He would've—"
A sharp pain shot up Olivia's forearm and she realized she was squeezing the safety rail of the bed so tightly she'd popped a stitch. Gazing indifferently at the fresh blood that seeped into the bandage on her palm, she continued:
"It doesn't matter what he would've done. He's not here. And I damn sure don't need him or anyone else to validate what I've been through. I was doing just fine on my own, you know. But here you and Calvin come along to dredge it all back up again. And now I'm not even sure of what I do remember. Like, is it a memory of him on top of me, shoving his cock into my tits, or is that just something I know happened because they told me so?"
With the pad of her index finger, she reached out and swept an errant hair off Amelia's forehead. A dab of blood escaped the gauze wrapped around her hand, dripping onto the girl's cheek like a tiny red kiss. Olivia scooped it away with the same fingertip and placed it on her tongue. It was bitter and evocative.
"You're probably the only one who really knows what happened to me. How's that for irony? I guess you know more about me than just about anyone. Rollins told me about all the stuff you and Calvin had back in your studio—the pictures and newspaper clippings and everything. You've been studying me for a long time, it sounds like. Finding out what makes me tick. Did he tell you about my rapist father and alcoholic mother? No wonder I'm so fucked up, right? Well, that's not even the half of it.
"You want to hear some things you couldn't possibly know about me, because I've never told anyone else before? I'm sure you do, being the Olivia Benson groupie that you are. Okay, so here goes: when I was ten years old, I watched my mother give a blowjob to a complete stranger. She slapped me across the face when I interrupted her. It was the first time she ever hit me, and the first time I found out what sex smelled like.
"Several years ago, I went undercover at this women's prison. One of the CO's—that's a correctional officer—he was raping inmates. He took me down to his disgusting little rape room and beat the hell out of me. I almost got away, but he cornered me and forced his dick in my mouth. So, you can see why I have issues with people shoving things into my mouth, can you not?
"Then there was the first time with Lewis. It was when we were in the beach house that last day. I had to pee so bad I thought I would explode, so he took me into the bathroom. But of course he didn't leave. I had to go with him watching like I was a puppy he was housebreaking. And before he pulled up my pants, he stuck his finger inside me and licked it off. 'Better than red velvet,' he said... Still can't touch the stuff.
"And you already know about the other, since you were there to watch it happen. The kid I once thought of like a son, using my body for his own sick pleasure. A receptacle for his come. Guess I should be grateful he only made it as far as my tits. At least, as far as I know. But you could tell me if it went any further than that. Did it, Millie?" She put a hand on the girl's shoulder, giving it the slightest shake. "Millie."
When there was no response, Olivia slid her palm into the curve where neck met shoulder, and tightened her grip. Her forefingers dug into the C7 vertebra, the most prominent of bones at the base of the neck. In front, she traced her thumb along the short, ridged track of windpipe, identifying the cartilage—both thyroid and cricoid—underneath, and ending at the jugular notch.
She knew exactly where to press and for how long. Did she have enough power to break the hyoid bone? Typically, it took a man's strength to pull that off—occasionally a woman's, if the victim was a small child—but Olivia was physically fit and capable of extreme force when pushed. How else would she have managed to crack Lewis' skull when it was a struggle just to remain conscious? To remain sane?
(Maybe she had failed at that last part, after all.)
"Now you know all my secrets," she whispered, and brought her bandaged hand up to join the other. She bent down and kissed Amelia on the forehead. "They can burn in Hell with you."
"Mama?"
Though scratchy and weak, the voice startled Olivia as much as a scream. She gasped sharply, snatching her hands back from the girl's neck. A smear of blood was the only evidence that could prove they had been there at all.
"Mama," Amelia repeated, her eyes huge and glassy. They seemed to be staring right through Olivia, whose skin prickled with goosebumps. She had the sudden urge to glance over her shoulder and see if Janice Cole really was standing behind her, but then Amelia reached for her, grabbing the arm that hung limply at her side.
"I am not your mother," Olivia said, shaking free from the loose grip. She hugged both arms to her waist, keeping them just beyond the girl's grasp. "She's... not here."
"I missed you, Mama." Amelia broke into a wide, delighted smile, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. She took no notice of the tubes that were sustaining her, conducting fluids in and out, and delivering the pain medication that made her shredded gut bearable. Straining against them, she continued reaching out, like a toddler who wants to be held. "Why did you go away for such a long time?"
"Stop it."
"Daddy's sad all the time and Lauren won't play with me anymore. Please, Mama—"
"Don't call me that. I am not—" Olivia gritted out, her teeth clenched so tightly she thought they might shatter. Her voice gave out from the strain of holding back the tears, which came anyway, and she could only mouth the rest: "—your mother."
"Are you mad at me? I'm sorry I was bad. I tried to be a good girl like you wanted, but I was so lonely after you... you..." Amelia blinked rapidly, her face twisting in pain and confusion. She still hadn't lowered her arms, even when she asked doubtfully, "Olivia?"
A nod was the most Olivia could manage as she stood with a hand over her mouth, unsure whether she was covering up a sob, a scream, or a dry heave. (Her stomach had never settled enough for more than that one bite apiece of donut and fortune cookie hours ago.) Whatever it was abated after several deep breaths through her nose, but the tears wouldn't stop no matter how many times she wiped them away with the cuff of her robe.
"Where am I?"
"The hospital," Olivia said, sniffling. "You got shot."
"I got shot?" Amelia tried to sit up, but made it no further than lifting her head from the pillow it rested on. She clutched her stomach and moaned. "Who shot me?"
Every bit of hatred and murderous rage had begun to filter away the moment Olivia started to cry, as if each shed teardrop carried with it a tincture of the poison that had been coursing through her veins. All that remained was a dried husk.
She very much wanted to sleep.
"Calvin," she said, too tired for mincing words. "He's dead."
Perhaps it was shock from the injury, but Amelia didn't seem particularly upset. Indeed, when she did find the response she wanted, it was simply: "Good."
"Why?" Olivia realized she was still hugging herself tightly. Releasing the tension in her arms, she let them fall to her sides. White-hot pinpricks traveled from her bruised wrists up to her shoulder blades, where they transformed into full-size fireplace pokers, red tips piercing deep into muscle. Strained rotator cuff had been the final diagnosis, but it felt more like a limb being rent from her body. "Why did you do this, Millie?" she asked, needing an answer in spite of the pain and exhaustion.
That was the reason she had dragged herself out of bed and up six floors in an elevator in the middle of the night, she realized—not to kill, but to ask the most elusive question of all: why?
"I don't know. I'm sorry. He said he needed my help. Couldn't do it without me." Amelia paused to cough dryly into her hand. "I didn't have anyone else. And the longer I played along, the harder it was to stop. I'm so sorry, Mommy."
"I'm not—"
"Am I going to die?" Amelia asked tearfully, spotting the IV in her arm and the machines that loomed at her bedside like solemn figures in a religious ceremony. An exorcism of the demon Arliss. She began to claw at the medical tape that held the IV tubing in place. "I don't want to die. Tilly needs me. I can't leave her like everyone left me."
"Millie, hey. Amelia." Olivia had no desire to comfort someone who'd shown zero compassion to her when the tables were turned, but she covered the girl's hand with her own, unable to stand by and watch her injure herself. Amelia had done plenty of that already. (Olivia could feel the scars trailing up the girl's arm. Somehow she was certain if she turned both over and counted, there would be a total of twenty-one.) "You're not going to die. They did surgery and removed the bullet. It's a good sign that you pulled through."
It means you can recover enough to stand trial and go to prison for a very, very long time, she added in her head.
"No, you don't understand. My family doesn't make it through stuff like this. We've been cursed ever since... since... that guy killed my mom."
"Lewis?"
Amelia nodded restlessly. Fine beads of perspiration were forming near her hairline. "He cursed us. You cursed us. Now I'm gonna die and Millie's not gonna have a mommy."
"Millie? You mean Tilly." Olivia put her disdain aside long enough to press a palm to the girl's forehead. It was slick with sweat and hot to the touch. "I think I better get the nurse in here. You're burning—"
"Promise you'll take her," Amelia said, grabbing Olivia's wrist with surprising strength, considering the state she was in.
Olivia tried to ease out of the grip, but it only tightened more, her already sore wrist throbbing under the pressure. "What?"
"I want you to take Tilly when I'm gone. She'll need a good mom."
"Millie, you're not thinking clearly. I can't do that. Besides, you hate me. I haven't forgotten that painting in your loft."
Truth be told, she had forgotten it until the moment she brought it up, but the hostility and derision that comprised its subtext had never left her thoughts. She'd known something was wrong as soon as she saw that awful mural. If only she had trusted her instincts.
"Forget all that stuff I said," Amelia implored, holding the back of Olivia's hand to her cheek. "Please. The painting and all of it. I did it to make Carl... Calvin happy. I don't hate you, not really. You're a good mom. A good person. I know you'd take care of her. Please."
Olivia didn't participate in the caress, but she didn't attempt to pull away, either. When she spoke, her brusque tone had softened at the edges: "That's not how it works. I couldn't just take her, even if I wanted to."
"Why not? You took Noah."
"That was different. I went through a lot to adopt my son. It takes a really long time. There's a process. They wouldn't just hand Tilly over to me."
"So? You could do that for her, too. The process. She'd be worth it." Amelia's urgent expression turned to one of apprehension. Her bottom lip had begun to tremble—along with the rest of her body—and she thrust it out in a childish pout. "Unless you don't want her because she's my and Calvin's daughter."
"That's not— I didn't mean—" Olivia sighed, frustrated that she had let herself get sucked into a hypothetical conversation. It wasn't fair to Matilda, who was a real live baby, not an old piece of furniture to be pawned off on the first taker; and it wasn't fair to Olivia, who had felt an immediate bond with the little girl from the moment she held her. She hadn't forgotten that for a second. "I would never blame a child for her parents' mistakes, believe me. But the courts would most likely hold my history with both of you against me. I'm sorry, it's just not possible, Millie."
"But you'd... y-you'd love her if they did let you have her?" Amelia gazed up pleadingly, her cold hands still clinging to Olivia's like a lifeline. "You'd make sure she h-had... had a good life?"
The last of Olivia's resolve slipped away. She could never forgive Amelia, but she could be an advocate for Matilda. God knew the child needed it, now that her mother would probably be locked up for most of her childhood. "Yes," she said, "I'd love her like she was my own."
"Okay. Thank you." Amelia closed her eyes and smiled. Then her grip loosened, allowing Olivia's hand to slip free. Her face went slack as it drifted towards the pillow, lips parting to emit a fine trickle of saliva.
Olivia watched the girl drifting off to sleep and realized she had nothing more to say to her. It wasn't exactly closure—nothing Amelia said could ever change what had happened—but at least the inexplicable pull that had brought her to this room in search of answers was gone.
"Goodbye," she whispered, for the sake of finality.
As she turned to leave, one of the monitors bleated in distress, its digital display blinking frantically. The blood pressure numbers took a sudden, nasty plunge, while heart rate spiked into the triple digits. Olivia had ridden in the back of enough ambulances with trauma patients to know it was not a good sign. She rushed to the door and threw it open in time to hear Nurse Harriet announcing a code blue in 703 over the PA system.
Within moments, a swarm of medical personnel had descended on the room, flooding it with light and sound, and pushing Olivia out into the hall. She must have looked forlorn, standing there in robe and slippers, trying to catch a glimpse of the action inside, because Nurse Harriet appeared and looped an arm around her waist.
"Your friend is in good hands, honey," said the nurse, leading her away.
"She's not my friend. Not anymore."
"Oh? You were whistling a different tune when you wanted to get in there to see her." Nurse Harriet clucked her tongue and steered Olivia to a wheelchair beside the front desk. "Tell me then, if she's not your friend anymore, what is she, Lieutenant?"
Olivia thought for a moment, then recited a phrase from another lifetime: "An agent of change, nailed to the trajectory of my life."
Chapter 10 coming soon!
