AN: Please review, y'all! You have no idea how much I love hearing your input. The more reviews I get, the more I want to write, and the more I want to write…the more updates. If you like it, tell me. If you hate it, tell me what would make it better. Be forewarned that if you go through a box of Kleenex (coughcoughgarrettelliotcoughcough), I'm broke, and am not buying you a new one…And I know that I'm writing a ton of different stuff here, but when inspiration hits me for something, I have to write it. I will finish 'Blessed are those who Mourn' 'Memories of a Broken Heart' and 'Vengeance is Mine'…when the writer's block lifts. Thank you to SVUFanatic611, a wonderful beta, supporter, and friend. Love ya, sista!

Disclaimer: If I owned them…I'd be rich, and able to buy everyone Kleenex. But I don't. Dick Wolf does. All credit for the characters, and show itself goes to him.

Spoilers: 'Doubt'

Stabler Residence

Friday, September 21st, 6:30 PM

Queens, New York

Elizabeth Stabler's POV

I stare down at the photo album I'm holding in my hands, afraid to open it and face what I know it contains. I feel tears burning in my eyes, and my throat feels as though someone is squeezing it shut. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to cry until I literally can't cry, until I'm rigid. I want to cry until I'm so exhausted that I can't move.

Slowly, I open my photo album to the first photograph. Damn it. A family portrait. I look into my eyes, into the eyes of a smiling, happy-seeming little girl. I wonder if she was ever happy. Maybe then she was. But something within her changed. Because I'm not happy.

The second photograph is of mom and dad before a Christmas party. They're looking into each other's eyes in it, both unsuspecting that a camera is on them. She is staring up into his eyes, adoringly. Daddy is smiling down at her, and years after the photograph has been taken, their love is apparent.

What happened? They were so in love! I remember, even when I was little, being able to see it. They were so in love! She used to run to meet him at the door each night he came home from work. He used to have a single rose in his hand for her when she greeted him. They used to stare into each other's eyes at the dinner table, completely oblivious to the banter going on around them.

I want to cry as I remember the end, the fighting, the shouting, and the slamming doors. I want to cry as I remember leaving the house where I grew up. I want to cry when I realize that my family is forever divided. I want to cry. But I'm all out of tears. I want to scream, and shatter the silence. Silence always followed mom and dad's fights, and I can't stand silence anymore. Silence is my enemy. Silence is what destroyed my family. Silence is my worst fear.

But there's no point in physically screaming or crying, because inside me, my heart has shattered from the force of my tears, and the deafening sound of my screams.

I take out my pain in other ways. I've tried starving myself, resting in the sweet physical emptiness that came with not eating, instead of focusing on the emotional emptiness that shatters me every time I realize that I can't really go home ever again. I can go to a house. But, never again, can I go home. Because home involves two parents.

I've thought about cutting myself. I've held a razor above my lower arm. Held it there, just to feel. I wanted to push it into me, wanted some of my pain to flow out with the blood, but, so help me God, I couldn't push in the damn razor. I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. But I was raised to believe that self-mutilation is a sin.

Once, late at night, I burned myself on the kettle, even though I knew what I was doing. Well, I think I did. The water was getting hotter and hotter, and my hand was on it, testing it to see if it was hot enough for me to have a cup of tea. I kept holding it there, even after it became physically painful. It felt good, in some sick, twisted way that I didn't understand. But as I realized what I was doing, I jumped away, and put my hand under cold water.

That's the strange thing about me. I'm not strong enough to live, but I'm not strong enough to die. I merely exist. But it is one shitty existence that I live. I don't remember what it's like to really truly live. I can't remember what my laugh sounds like. I don't remember how it feels to laugh. I don't remember what happiness feels like, let alone complete joy. Right now, all I can feel is pain. Unresolved pain, which I don't know can ever be resolved.

It's not as though I don't try to talk to my parents, or to my siblings. I try, but I can never voice how I really feel. I want to die. I look at my reflection and hate myself for thinking that I could have done something to cause my parent's separation. I hate walking to a residence where my father isn't, a residence that's not the house I grew up in, after school, because I know all I'll feel in that residence is pain. How do I tell both my parents that, in all honesty, I hate them? How do you tell the people who gave you life that you want to end your life?

There are times I thinkI would have been better off if I had never known what a family was like, a real family. A family where your parents raise you together, live in the same house, and are in love with each other. There are times I think it would be better if I had never known my father, because then it wouldn't hurt so much to not have him near me. I love my father beyond all reason, and I need him. That's another thing I don't know how to voice. How much I need him. Visitation rights suck. I want to see my father more than once a week. I want to be with him and my mother. More than anything, I want to live a life in a close-knit, supportive family.

Maybe if I hadn't been part of a close-knit family, it wouldn't hurt this much as I yearn for them. But it hurts. It hurts like hell, and there's no escaping it. I could cut into myself. I could burn myself. I could scream into a mirror that I hate myself. I could throw something at my reflection and watch it shatter. I could starve myself. I could cry. I could scream. I could punch something. I could scream at my parents that I hate them. I could lock myself away and never get up. I could find alcohol, and drink it. I could do drugs to try and get high. But none of that would stop the pain, and that is what I hate more than anything.

Even talking doesn't seem to help. I used to be able to talk through my problems with my parents so…easily. Now, talking just seems like a non-productive waste of both mine and the second person's time. Even talking to my friends seems stupid. Talking leads to nothing, I tell myself. Silence leads to nothing. What the hell is the point in life again?

So, here I am, in my bedroom, in the house I used to live in. There's a cup of tea beside me, and I sip it, closing my eyes. I used to drink tea at dinner before the separation. I close my eyes, and try to re-live that moment. To my surprise, I can. I see myself, smiling and laughing, my entire immediate family around me. I feel the love, and the warmth, and I can feel my mother's arm around me. I put the cup of tea on my nightstand, and lean back against the pillows, ready to meditate on my family, and my former joy. I know that if I get too far, I'll never want to come back, but I'll have to in time.

I smile as I sink deeper and deeper into meditation. Usually, it hurts to remember. But this time, this way, I don't have to remember where and who I am now. All I have to remember is the joy, and the laughter, and my family. All I have to feel is my mother stroking my hair after I had a nightmare, all I have to feel is my father picking me up and hugging me. All I have to feel is joy. All I have to hear is the sound of my laughter, and my parents' quiet I-love-you's. All I have to see is my mother playing with me and Dickie, my father smiling and telling me how proud he was of me whenever I brought home a good grade from school. In this sweet meditation, there is no pain. Elizabeth Stabler is a child untouched by fear of what will come, pain of what is, and guilt of her role in the tragedy. Instead she is laughing, smiling.

The quiet rapping on the door shakes me from my sweet world, but I am unwilling to face the current one, and keep my eyes closed.

"'Liz? Sweetie?" My father walks into my room, "Are you awake?"

I slowly force my eyes open and meet my father's eyes. He smiles down at me, but I'm a million miles away.

"I'm awake, Daddy."

"Dinner's ready, baby."

"I'll be right down."

His eyes search mine, and of course Mr. Detective is going to sense some of my pain.

"Are you okay, Lizzie?"

"Fine," I say, lying.

Lying becomes so easy when your parents divorce. Separate. What the hell's the difference, anyway? Both lead to heartbreak, destruction, and inconceivable amounts of pain. If people keep asking me how I am, and I keep answering the way I do, I'm going to be a very skilled actress.

"Okay." Dad answers, "It's going to be on the table in five, so don't wait too long."

He leaves the room, and I drown again in wave after wave of pain. I can escape what I don't have with what I did have. But the pain when I remember that I don't have that anymore is unbearable. If I could see the point in crying right now, as I remember what I don't have, I would. But crying, at least to me, is pointless.

Slowly, I walk towards the bathroom and pull out a razor, giving it another look. A look that is more serious than the other looks I've cast upon this razor. As I hold it in my hands, it feels like a best friend. It can take away my pain.

Instead of holding it to my lower arm, I hold it to my wrist. It feels so good…I've never had the strength to push down, to end it all. This time, it all feels so much easier, and it happens so much faster. Quickly, I slash both wrists, biting my lip to stop from screaming. My body is going limp. I never thought pain would feel this good. I fall to the ground, but I realize that the bathroom door is partially open. I want to close it, but all strength seems gone from my body. I realize what is really happening, and feel my first wave of panic.

"Elizabeth, are you planning on coming down before Christmas?" I hear my father call. I hear both sternness and laughter in his voice, "Your food's getting cold!" His voice is coming closer up the stairs.

Why did my room have to be right next to the bathroom? I don't want him to see me like this! I see him walking towards the bathroomdoor, and pushing it open further. I feel him staring at my wrist, searching my eyes. As it sinks in, I hear him scream.

"Kathleen, call an ambulance!" He shouts.

Daddy is pulling me into his arms. I can't see him, but I feel him. I want to tell him that it hurts…physically, more than anything. I want to tell him I'm sorry, and that it's not his fault. I want to tell him that if I could reverse what I have done, I would.

I want to tell him that I don't really want to die.

I hear Kathleen calling an ambulance in the background, something being wrapped around my wrists, and sobbing.

I wonder if God will send me to hell as everything fades away.

General Mercy Hospital

Saturday, September 22nd, 8:04 AM

Queens, New York

Elizabeth Stabler's POV

I lie in a state of nothing. I don't remember much. I remember that my name is Elizabeth Stabler, that I'm fourteen years old, and the youngest of four children. My father's name is Elliot. My mother's name is Kathy. They just got separated. I remember slitting my wrists, but after that…it's all a blur. I don't know where I am now. I don't know whether I'm dead or alive. Just that I'm here, in this place of nothingness.

"Liz? Lizzie, sweetheart?" I feel my father speaking to me, but I don't understand where his voice is coming from.

"Come on, sweetie, you have to wake up."

Where am I, daddy? I want so badly to say it, but I can't speak.

I feel him reach out and take my hand.

"Elizabeth. Can you open your eyes for me? Please, honey." His voice is cracking.

I don't know what's going on. I'm hearing a beeping noise, and my eyes open. I don't understand where I am, or what's going on. I see lights overhead, and realize that the beeping noise is a heart monitor, meaning I'm in the hospital, I guess.But above all, I feel my father holding my hand. I look to him, and his eyes are closed, his head bowed. Slowly, I find the strength to try again to speak.

"…Daddy…?"

"Liz?"

His eyes meet mine, and I see his stare. I look to him, and his stare sees right through me. I am caught in every lie, every time I said I was fine. How can one look voice so many emotions? I see anger at me for doing what I did, but fear that he had something to do with it. I see both questions and answers as to why I did what I did. I see forgiveness. I see love. But above all, I see my father, and I look at him with my own stare.

I see the man who used to rock me back to sleep when I had nightmares. I see the man that is the authoritarian and disciplinarian that taught me right from wrong. I see the teacher that taught me to be all I can be. I see the man that motivated me to be all I can.

He didn't deserve this. I know the gaze that I am meeting his with is mixed with self-hatred, sorrow, rage, and pain.

"I'm s-s-o s-sorry, daddy." I manage to get out of me.

I look at my father again, and this time I see the man who protected, protects, and will protect me. I thought I had nothing to live for. As I look into his eyes, I know that isn't so.

"Why, Elizabeth?" He whispers.

"I…I don't know!" I say, starting to cry for the first time in months, "I don't know!"

Tears flow freely from my eyes. One for my mother. My sweet mother, who never meant to hurt me, and didn't deserve to be put through the hurt I'd inflicted on her by my stupid, selfish actions. One for my father, who didn't deserve the extra pain I had given to him. One for Dickie, one for Kathleen, one for Maureen.

I sob, I gasp for air, I cry, and I'm surprised at how much better I feel as I start. My father pulls me into his arms, and strokes my hair, gently whispering to me, the same way he did when I was a little girl. I realize, that to him, I'll always be his baby girl. My father will always love me, and that is one thing that will never change. My family may be divided, may not be the same, but the love is still there, and nothing can change that. Nothing.

I continue sobbing like a little child in my father's arms. I'd never thought that maybe pain would flow out with the tears. Tears of pain, tears of shame, and tears of relief fall down my face. Pain of the loss of what was, shame at what I did as a result, but relief as well.

Because in this moment, I know that everything is going to be all right.

AN: Okay, people. Reviews make me happy. And the longer, the better. You consider it a novel, I consider it…a novel that I am quite desperate andhappyto read. If there is any interest from anyone, I will continue this, so tell me if you want me to keep going. I have some ideas for a trilogy. So…thoughts? Ideas? Suggestions? Press the purple-bluish button and let me know!