Haunted
"...watching me, wanting me, I can feel you pull me down..."
Yes, that day was a good day. As was the day after, and the day after that. But then there was the next day.
"Put your gun down," she told him.
"There aren't any bullets," he sneered at her as he lowered his gun to his hostage's head. Her hand jerked back—once, twice, and his blood spattered on the wall behind him—once, twice. She couldn't get it out of her head.
That night, she had a mug of hot cocoa, even though she knew better. She curled up on her bed, still clasping her drink, and she dreamed again.
She saw the waitress from her first case at Special Victims, the woman who had killed the man responsible for so many rapes and torturing of women in their old country and killed her own family. Olivia watched again as the desperate woman plunged a knife into her own flesh to be with that family. She saw it over and over. She saw the man she killed who had trained his gun at Elliot, holding his stewardess wife hostage. She shot him—once, twice. Olivia kept pinching and pinching herself, but it only made the skin on her wrists peel off, reminding her of the dream she'd had a few nights before.
She saw Evan, the boy who had been abused by his piano teacher, and then abused another student. He showed her his letter from Julliard, the acceptance letter Elliot had opened for him. He kissed it—once, twice, then lit it on fire and tossed it to her feet. She saw the judge's wife, who killed her daughter with a beer bottle. Deep in her heart, Olivia still felt sorry for her. Then she saw Plummer. Again. And again. She kept opening the door to Aivilo Productions to find his crumpled body in a bloody heap on the floor, her handiwork. She blinked—once, twice, and found herself outside her apartment.
A kid ran past her, probably first grade. He was so irresistibly cute that she leaned toward him as he ran by, hoping to touch him, perhaps for good luck. "Get away from me!" he screamed as he dodged her. "All you do is ruin peoples' lives!" Then another kid ran, and then more, until there were dozens of children looking angrily at her without blinking in a huge group. One little girl stood in front of the crowd. Olivia recognized her in an instant. She was the daughter of the woman who had been raped, murdered, and buried with her sister's sex toys, and replaced in her unaware husband's bed by the same sister. "You've ruined so many lives," she shouted. "Don't you think you've done enough?"
Olivia felt herself nod, reaching to her gun belt, her fingers lovingly tracing its familiar shape, then darting out to grasp her weapon. "You're right," she told the chilled. She turned the gun to face her, cocked it and shot it hard—once, twice, burning into her chest.
The cocoa's spilling on her thin nightgown startled her, as the pure white cotton was disrupted by the two drops of liquid chocolate spread on the delicate gown. "This has got to stop," she muttered as she reached for the phone and dialed Huang's number. It wasn't eleven yet—he had to be up still. He could help.