10.
Olivia was brought to her senses by the feeling of warmth on her knees. She looked down and saw she was kneeling in a pool of blood - most of it Lewis's, she hoped. But too much of it was hers, running in slow rivulets down her mangled back, seeping from torn burns, a tiny trickle from between her legs.
Any adrenaline was truly gone now, and she could feel every burn, every bruise, every cut on her body. Her head spun, and her mouth was dry. On the other hand, her left wrist didn't hurt much anymore, but she couldn't bend it, or even flex her fingers, and she knew that was a bad sign.
On top of it all, she was tired. Even on her hardest cases or longest nights, she'd never been anywhere near this tired before, a bone deep ache of exhaustion, a heavy gray cloak overlaying all other thoughts and sensations. She wanted nothing so badly as to lie down, close her eyes, sleep until things were better. If she did, she knew she would never wake up. Part of her thought that might be okay.
But no, she'd made it this far. What was just a little more? She had to get up, call for help. But her hands were still cuffed, and that meant rooting through Lewis's pockets for a key, a task she didn't relish.
She glanced at Lewis and immediately wished she hadn't. His face was eradicated, a mess of mangled flesh and shredded skin. His throat was all but gone, a gaping, ragged hole. Smaller holes dotted his chest and stomach. Lower down, too. Only his mouth remained intact, locked in a sunken, crooked grin, like a rotted jack-o-lantern.
If she'd had the strength to be sick, she would have lost whatever might be left in her stomach. As it was, she only breathed faster and averted her face. She couldn't afford any more weakness now. Tentatively, her left wrist hanging uselessly, she reached her right hand into Lewis's pants pocket, the one closer to her. It was empty.
She groaned aloud. Of course it was. For a moment, she considered simply leaving the handcuffs on. But no, getting the key would be a simple task, physically, at least. Gritting her teeth, she shuffled forward and leaned across Lewis's body, reaching into his other pocket. She was half convinced that she was about to feel his hand reach out and grip her neck, push her to the ground. Her fingers brushed metal, and Lewis shifted beneath her. Olivia threw herself back with a scream, the key clattering on the floor.
The movement almost made her pass out, the combination of pain and dizziness from the sudden motion sending a wave of darkness across her vision. She crouched on the floor, panting, staring at him in terror, before realizing her weight had probably just pushed his body further down.
But she couldn't bring herself to touch him again. Even dead, his proximity made her breath hitch in fear. She crawled around him instead, the cuffs cutting further into her flesh with every step. Gingerly, she managed to snag the key. A moment later, the handcuffs finally clattered to the ground, not a fleck of silver visible through the clotted red. Still, her hands were free for the first time in days. She searched herself for some hint of pleasure but found only numbness. She didn't have time for celebration.
Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet. It made the world spin even more, if possible, and her leg hurt with a deep, sharp pain. But both seemed bearable. She made it perhaps two steps before falling and hitting the ground hard. Now her wrist hurt.
She rolled onto her back and sobbed for a moment, trying to set aside the exhaustion and agony and dizziness long enough to formulate some sort of half-coherent plan. Maybe there was a phone somewhere, or a neighbor she could ask for help. She closed her eyes, listening for the rumble of a passing car, the buzz of distant voices. There was nothing. Only the sound of the rush of waves against the shore, soothing and rhythmic, fading slowly away...
Olivia jerked her eyes open with some effort. This was useless. She had to stay awake, keep moving. The door was right there, she could try the living room. If nothing else, it would get her away from Lewis's body. The mere idea of trying to stand up again made her wrist throb even more, so she gritted her teeth and pushed herself to her hands and knees. At least no one was here to see her crawl anymore.
Slowly, agonizingly, she dragged herself out of the room, cradling her injured wrist against her chest, flinching whenever the burn on her leg scraped against the floor. She stopped at the doorway and looked behind her, wanting to make sure Lewis hadn't somehow gotten up to follow her out. He was still where she'd left him but what she noticed instead was the trail of blood she was leaving behind, dark red drops and streaks meandering across the hardwood.
She lowered her head and fought off another wave of dizziness. She needed help right now or she would bleed out right here, and she and Lewis would die together, like two snakes locked in each others' jaws. But there was no sign of a phone in the living room either. Only furniture covered in cloth, cheery pictures in frames, and drug paraphernalia scattered across the floor. Lots of people didn't bother keeping land lines anymore, she knew, especially in their vacation homes. Maybe she'd die here anyway, a phone call away from rescue.
Somehow, she pushed herself her forward, heading towards the nearest room. There had to be something useful here, something that could help. The door turned out to lead to a tiny laundry room. A small bottle of detergent lay on the floor, several white towels sat high on a shelf above a dryer. A thin layer of dust coated every surface. No sign of a phone.
She was about to leave, or maybe just lie down, when something caught her attention. At the bottom of the stack of towels lay what looked like a white bathrobe, its fabric belt hanging slightly over the edge. She was moving towards it almost before she realized what she was doing.
The shelf was perhaps six feet off the ground - easily within reach on a normal day, but seemingly impossible now. Still, she levered herself upwards, bracing her good hand against the dryer. The floor seemed to rock wildly beneath her, her vision obscured by a rush of gray. She rested her head on her forearm, half standing, willing the dizziness to go away.
This was a mistake. Maybe everything she'd done since meeting Lewis was a mistake, but this might very well be the last. She'd had the energy to do maybe one more thing after killing him, and she was wasting it on trying to cover herself, rather than finding help. And why? After all that happened, how could she possibly still care about modesty? The paramedics would probably have to cut any clothing off her, just like Lewis had. There would be photos and documentation for the case file. And besides, it wouldn't - it wouldn't-
"It won't change what happened," she said aloud, her voice cracking. The words seemed to float in the stillness of the air, sounding small and forlorn in the empty house.
The enormity of what happened finally hit her, that this wasn't a dream that she could snap out of, another bruise that she could shrug off. It was easier to keep going when she could just think of only the next step, of surviving another minute, because the thought of anything beyond that was overwhelming. A lifetime of confidence, self-image, and reputation, all but eradicated in four days of concentrated violence. No one would ever look at her the same, ever see her without thinking about what had happened. But the old Olivia, the one who'd never breathed a word to her partner about her time at Sealview, would never have allowed herself to be discovered lying naked and battered on the ground, with all of what Lewis had done on full display. And she had to believe something of the old Olivia was salvageable. Or she might as well lay down and die right now.
She took a breath, reached up, and pulled down the bathrobe, the towels falling to the ground with a quiet flump. The soft cloth of the robe caught on the cracked skin of her burns and she let out an involuntary cry of agony. This was insane. She was going to die here, and it wouldn't even be Lewis that killed her, but her own vanity, her pride. But she was covered now - she could face the first responders knowing she'd regained some modicum of control, of dignity.
It was harder to move now, every step made her wounds scream against the cloth, but she still felt better, in a perverse sort of way. This little victory gave her a second wind, and she dragged herself back out to the living room, then towards the kitchen, the last place she hadn't been. Her final chance.
The living room couldn't have been more than fifteen feet across but it felt like miles. Halfway through, her limbs gave out and she fell heavily to the ground. She lay there, her cheek pressing against the coolness of the floorboards, unable to summon the strength or will to keep moving.
This was far enough. It had to be. They'd know - her team would know that she tried, that she hadn't simply lay down and let Lewis win. And maybe it was better this way. She would never have to explain what happened, no one would ever know how she'd cried and begged and given up. She'd fought Lewis to a standstill - that must have earned her the right to stop, the right to rest...
She could almost hear Lewis's laugh echoing from the bedroom. But you'll know, won't you? You'll die knowing that you begged for death, and I gave it to you, in the end. And I'll still be the last face you saw, the last person you ever touched.
With a cry of pain and frustration, she levered herself to her hands and knees, somehow dredging up the energy to push herself forward, one slow step at a time. By the time she reached the kitchen, her limbs were shaking, curtains of spotted gray drifting slowly past her vision. Everything seemed darker, it was hard to even look around. But she didn't have the energy to look for a light switch. The place seemed mostly empty anyway, a couple drawers and cabinets hanging loosely open, doubtlessly from when Lewis had rifled through them earlier. An empty green vase rested crookedly on the table, a small toaster oven sat on the kitchen counter. Right next to it was a small cordless phone.
With a sudden flash of hope, she crawled forward, dragging herself painfully up to the counter and reaching for the it. With her luck recently, it wouldn't have surprised her if the phone didn't work, and she could have just saved herself all the pain and effort and died back in the bedroom. But she dialed and was greeted with a calm, professional voice.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"My name is Olivia Benson. I was abducted - " It occurred to her that she had no idea how long she had been with Lewis. Days, at least, but too much of it had been a haze for her to really know. She gave up on trying to explain. "Please, I need help."
The voice on the line no longer sounded quite so neutral. "Can you tell me where you are, ma'am?"
"I don't - I don't know. It's like a vacation house. It's by a beach." The idea of going outside to check the house number, look for a street sign, had never seemed so impossible.
"That's all right, ma'am. We'll trace your call. Are you injured?"
"Yes," she whispered. "I'm bleeding. My leg, my wrist, I think they're broken. I've been drugged... I don't know."
"Is your abductor still on scene?"
"He's dead."
As if that admission had cost her the last of her strength, her hands lost their grip on the phone and she slid to the ground. The voice on the phone was still speaking, sounding tinny and distant, but she couldn't muster up the strength to answer.
She wasn't sure how long she sat there, drifting in and out of consciousness, before she heard the distant wailing of sirens, getting louder and louder. She closed her eyes again, jerking them open when the door was kicked open, hard enough to rattle the windows. Two uniformed officers burst in, guns drawn. One looked young enough that he had to be practically fresh from the academy, and Olivia briefly closed her eyes, trying not to remember the last rookie she'd come across, dying for merely stopping the wrong car. The older cop saw her first, lowering his gun slightly as he walked to her, gesturing to his partner to clear the rest of the house.
"Detective Benson?" he asked.
The title almost seemed like a mockery, when she was sitting here, this badly damaged, but she managed to nod.
"That's me." Her voice sounded different, hoarser, and she wondered if it was the dehydration or if she'd damaged her throat screaming.
"The ambulance was right behind us, Detective. You're safe, it's going to be all right."
The other officer returned then, eyes a little wild, his skin tinged slightly green. He glanced at her and then glanced away quickly. "The guy's definitely dead," he said, looking at his partner. "No one else in the house."
Olivia drifted off again as the paramedics came in, asked her questions that she wasn't sure she answered, touching her, lifting her onto a stretcher. Even more new voices joined in, sounding agitated, words melting together. If any of it was directed at her, she didn't know.
They carried her outside, and she opened her eyes just long enough to see the rookie cop bent over, retching in the bushes.
I'm a monster now, too, she managed to think, before darkness overtook her.