A/N. Well, here we are again! I've finally added something after a long break. This one's NOT about Munch (waits for surprised gasps). I know. Anyway, this one's Liv's. Let me tell you, it felt a whole lot stronger when I was writing it... but that's the way of things, isn't it? An angsty-depression type thing about Olivia's childhood and what makes her what she is. I know, it's too short. Bite me.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Obviously. (To elaborate: Law and Order: SVU belongs to Dick Wolf and Wolf Films, as well as NBC. Not me.)
I don't recognize the face in the mirror.
Pretty, I think absently, noting the high cheek-bones, caramel-colored eyes and full lips. Pretty, but distant. The woman's eyes spoke volumes. There was a haunted look in them, like a soldier. All naïveté was long gone, banished by too many macabre acts and horrific deaths.
How does one chose such a life? I wondered. A picture flits across the glass: A little girl, walking among an overgrown flower bed, humming in the endearing way that children will. Her hair is pulled back into two messy braids, the work of her own willing but clumsy hands. She spun in the sunlight, oblivious of the mad rush of the city around her. She was absorbed in her own private world.
The little girl was older. She solemnly sat at a back table, picking through an ancient box of crayons. The paper wrappers were soft and crinkled from use, the ends dull. The little girl tapped absently at a blank space in the blue of the sky, trying in vain to find the yellow crayon. Finally she got up and walked cautiously to the next table. She stood at the elbow of another girl who was chattering away at her friends for a moment, hoping to be noticed. When she wasn't, she tugged lightly on the other girl's sleeve.
"Excuse me, may I borrow your yellow crayon?"
The blonde quickly grips the yellow wax stick. "Sorry. I'm using it."
"Maybe I could use it when you're finished?"
"I'm going to use it for a really long time."
"Oh," she said faintly. "Never mind, then."
As she retread back to her empty table, the other girls' voices were clearly audible.
"She's weird."
"Yeah. She always wears such ugly clothes."
The solitary little girl pulled on the hem of her dress, feeling tears prickling behind her eyes.
"My mom said her that her mom…"
The little girl closed out their voices focusing on holding back her tears. The bell rang and the children flouced out in groups, talking and laughing. No one spared a thought for the girl in blue, quietly gathering her things and trudging out of the classroom without a sound, her head down. She walked out into the sun, and was eclipsed by a bright flash. My eyes narrowed to protect themselves. When my vision cleared, I saw her again.
She was sitting up in her bed with the blankets drawn around her knees. It was dark; the only window's light was muted in the shadow of the neighboring structure. She glanced anxiously at the clock. 3:27. Chewing on her thumb worriedly, her eyes flicked from the door to the clock and back. 3:28. There was a muffled thump outside of the door and a pair of keys jingled. The girl threw off the covers quickly and scampered to the door. She checked the peephole quickly before swinging the door wide to reveal a shabbily dressed brunette digging in her purse. She saw the little girl after a moment.
"Oh, darling, I hope I didn't wake you." Her words slurred slightly as if she were drunk, this possibility strengthened by the thick sharp smell of vodka on her breath and clothing.
"What are you doing home so late, Mama?"
"Well, traffic was very bad on the Queens Borough Bridge, doll," she replied.
Lurching into the living room, the woman dropped her purse and coat on the floor. Her daughter quietly picked them up and hung them on the coat rack beside the door. She was silent a moment before she murmured softly, "But you don't take the Queens Borough home from work."
"What!" the older brunette said, turning dangerously to face the now shirking girl. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," the girl said, lowering her head.
"That's right, it had better be nothing. Don't you go sassing me, missy."
"Yes, Mama," she replied, her head still down.
She chuckled drunkenly before collapsing onto the sofa. The girl draped a blanket carefully over the already-snoring form. She kissed her forehead lightly. "G'night, Mama," she whispered before retreating quietly to her bedroom.
Scenes flickered before my eyes; a middle school dance, rainy days spent in a city library reading murder-mysteries, a sorority party. I saw a young woman in uniform proudly display a badge on her breast. Another picture: a detective entering a squad room, striding up to the office doors in mock-courage. A gun-fight, a stalker, a corpse, crying, blood, screams, sirens, flames…
I lash out, my fist connecting with the glass and smashing it. The pieces fall to the floor, landing with a tinkling sound akin to the ringing of silver bells. They flicker as they fall, then lie dark and still on the cold cement floor. I look at my hand dazedly. It's bloody, the skin scratched and torn. Sinking to the ground, I gaze into the shards. The eyes are the same: empty and alone. I find myself whispering to the woman imploringly. "Who are you?" Tears run down my cheeks, mingling with my blood on the cool surface of the mirror. They swirl together until the lonely brown eyes are hidden, until all that's left are the hard sobs that shake my shoulders.
"Who am I?"