Hi, so here is another chapter and I am so glad that we are getting through them.

Now GRAPHIC TRIGGER WARNINGS for this chapter for the rape, beating and drugging of a minor, derogatory language and graphic descriptions of violence. Please be aware and keep yourself protected.

Disclaimer-Nothing here is mine just this chapter and the character of Bridget.

Please Read and Review.

And finally on a personal note for me on news that has no doubt been seen all around the world and as a Brit means enough for me to comment on. Queen Elizabeth II who sadly passed away at the time of writing this was perhaps one my idols since before I could understand what the word meant. This chapter and indeed all chapters of my work with this update are written in memory of her and her phenomenal legacy as a Queen, a wife, a mother, a grandmother and a great-grandmother and perhaps most importantly at all, a woman in a man's world who rose to the top was universally respected and never stopped smiling even when I imagine all she wanted to do was cry. As she so wonderfully said, grief is the price we pay for love. And perhaps it is the best price that we can pay for that, the most ultimate gift.

Stand And Unfold Yourself

Chapter 5-Refusal Of Care

Time flies since that cup of hot chocolate and Bridget Voight is broken and re-born. Until one day she doesn't think she can take it anymore and something happens.

That Night and All The Moments in Between.

One cup of hot chocolate and it was all over.

Bridget was eleven, how was she supposed to know that the drink was spiked. All she had remembered was feeling tired and cold and then warm and sticky and George had suggested that she lie down and get some sleep and that had been the end of that. When she had woken up it was over. He'd already raped her there and then and Bridget even at the age of eleven had known what had happened. She had known that what she was feeling was not right and that was before she had realised that she was locked in a the trunk of a car.

But she blacked out most of that part to be honest. And the stuff that came next.

She'd not gone down quietly though and as she had turned from the terrified eleven year old to…well…what she was now she could look back on that and be proud.

Well…if she could summon enough energy to be anything other than utterly exhausted.

That was the main emotion now, a bone deep exhaustion, a tiredness that came with just simply breathing. There was nothing in her that allowed for any other kind of emotion and for Bridget every morning she woke up she found that she just wanted to turn over and die.

It had been a terrible four years, the beatings, the starvation, the rape…all of that she had managed to put into little boxes in order to survive because for three of the four years she had been waiting.

Waiting for what you asked?

Her Dad.

It was as simple as that.

Because Bridget might have been eleven and then she was twelve and then thirteen and fourteen but all along that time she had known, deep down that he was out there looking for her. Not in the way that other people did in the rat infested place she was chained too every night but in the quietly confident way that her driven Bob and the other guy mad. She had just simply known. Her Dad was Hank Voight, he could do things that other men couldn't and she had known that no matter how bad it had gotten between the two of them at the end he wouldn't just leave her here to rot.

It was that quite confidence that had driven Bob mad.

At first she had fought like hell and had been given hell in return. For all the beatings and the being chained down to the drugs she had been injected with to the cameras that she knew were recording her. Jocelyn who had been a little bit older than she had been had encouraged her to give up—to stop the fighting because in the long run they would kill her to shut her up but Bridget had still gone on even when Bob had crushed every bone in her hand and kicked her knee in so hard that she had been unable to move it for six months afterwards. He had grabbed her one morning and yanked it and she had screamed as he had forced himself on her more to the pain in her knee than to anything else and what that said about her at that point she didn't think.

She didn't cry. Not until…she had never cried and she thought that had been what had frightened them. What had increased their desire to break her. One day she had been dragged from where she had been lying down on the filthy mattress (with a boot in her stomach until she retched for good measure) and dragged before the big guy. Looking at him dead in the eye like she had been taught she had stared at him when he had told her that her father had been arrested for being a corrupt cop, that Justin had been arrested with him.

To be honest the fact that her Dad was a corrupt cop didn't fucking surprise her. She loved the man despite everything, despite the fact that he had waited a long fucking time to find her, despite the fact that day by day, hour by hour she was losing hope that someone ever would come and find her. If not her father or Justin then Erin surely? She had been sure before it had all fallen to pieces that Erin had liked her if not loved her.

"What do you want me to say?" she asked insolently staring the bastard down.

Bob had cracked her across the face with his gun for daring to address the boss with anything less than reverence but before she had gone all the way down he had reached out and grabbed her by the chin. The Boss had looked at her with a smile that made his eyes look manic. His face illuminated and insane and he had told her then that they had both been killed in prison.

She had refused to believe it but then he had shown her newspaper articles that had told her that the corrupt Detective and his son were dead.

(How was she supposed to know that it was not really real?)

And then she was done. Aching, bleeding, broken…she was done. It was hard to explain to anyone who had not been there with her but she was done. Because her father was dead. Justin was dead. And Erin was…well…gone clearly…so what did it matter that she was alive? What did any of it matter? So she took the kicks, she took the hits and she took the bullets because Hank Voight was dead, Justin Voight was dead and it was abundantly clear that Erin Lindsey didn't give a shit.

And so there was nobody.

Nobody. Nothing. No one.

And with that Bridget broke.

There was a kick to her ribs that sent her gasping and then another kick to her face that had her coughing up blood.

"Because without them Bridget what are you?"

Nothing. She was nothing.

Another kick.

She gagged a little playing for time because how was she supposed to answer that? How was she supposed to put into words the nightmare that was playing out in front her. She had stayed strong…no she had stayed sane because she had assumed that her father and brother were out there kicking down doors. Even if he had been in prison she would have always assumed he was looking, always dependable, inflexible perhaps but this was Hank Voight he was always solidly there.

The Boss grabbed her by her legs and dragged her to him so that he was on top of her his hands around her throat.

"Who are you Bridget?"

Nothing.

Nobody.

She was struggling to breathe and she knew with all the certainty in the world that if she replied wrong then she was dead. But it didn't matter what she replied as because he was right, she was nothing, without her family she was nothing.

She had nobody.

Nothing, no one, nobody.

The hands were pressed down tighter and she gagged seeing stars.

"What are you Bridget?"

"Nothing" she choked out and after a second that seemed to stretch beyond an eternity she felt the hands loosen. The Boss did…well…he did what he always did and for once she didn't fight it. She didn't force him to look at her. Instead she did what Jocelyn had told her to do years ago and she played dead and pretended that it wasn't happening.

He left her there thinking she was dead. At that point Bridget wanted to be it but Bob had never been one to let her wallow in silence and once it got around that she had become compliant it was . She wasn't even filmed anymore. As she grew older it became more and more apparent that she was being used as Bob's punching bag and George's personal slave and only when Jocelyn had been thrown out onto the streets did she think about the time that had passed and one day she realised that she was fifteen. Fifteen.

Fifteen was a lifetime.

Fifteen was her life.

And she was alone.

Bob had taken the chance now she was (as he called it) 'compliant' to give her to other men. It was easy to just go into the darkness of her thoughts and pretend that it wasn't happening and to be honest she was usually given a lot of vodka to keep her calm.

It was her life now, no family, no life, nothing.

Nothing but this.

And then one day at her darkest point it changed.

She wasn't sure what about this man made her skin crawl. God knows she'd gotten used to the feeling and Bob was done with her mostly and she knew he had people all over New York to drag her back—he had threatened her enough times with it.

She had been taken to a seedy motel and dumped in the foyer. Bob had gripped her arm on the way over so tightly it was bruising already even though by now he had thought her broken. To be honest she felt broken. Broken, spoilt, ruined…beyond…anything. Certainly beyond saving. Didn't they know that already? Whoever it was out there looking down or looking up?

She had been forced into this skin tight blue dress that was strappy and made her look like the abused whore that Bob told her she was. She didn't care. She never cared anymore. Bridget didn't think that she had the ability to care about anything or anyone ever again and certainly never care about herself.

She wasn't even sure what the tipping point was. She couldn't say that she had seen something or seen someone and reacted just like those lifetime movies on TV because that was simply not true. She had just been lying there watching and she knew from the look that this one was going to take time causing pain and then it was almost like a little voice in her head that said clearly.

No.

And then it changed from the little voice into a roar, a roar of white noise that turned into one word over and over again.

No.

No.

No.

No.

And with that she snapped.

She dimly remembered reaching for the nearest thing that she could get her hands on which was the lamp stand and yanking it out of the plug socket and then before he could even move she had clobbered the rapist bastard on the head not once, not twice, but three times and by the third time she could see that she had caved his skull in.

It was odd watching it as he fell to the ground. This man who was nameless, faceless and yet who had come at her and she had defended herself. Granted she wasn't a lawyer but she knew self defence when she saw it.

It was like she was outside her body watching as she stood there with the lampshade still in her hand. She couldn't force her body to move, she couldn't force her brain to think, she was bone achingly tired and though she was probably leaving DNA all over the scene she dropped the thing to the floor watching as her bloody hands left marks all over it. Finally after what felt like an age she turned catching sight of herself in the mirror.

She looked dazed. Her face and hair were splattered with blood as was her hands and in the struggle her dress had been ripped. She staggered in her shoes and she fell to the floor face planting the carpet breathing in and breathing out and then turning and vomiting all over the floor.

Pushing herself up she leaned against the foot of the bed and gagged scrubbing a bloody hand all over her face. Her hands were shaking and Bridget who had taken drugs more than once and had more than once had drugs forced upon her felt like her body was reacting with a cocktail that was not good.

She forced herself to her feet but kicked off her shoes and went to the bathroom where she threw water in her face and on her hands and arms. The cold hit of water sharpened her somewhat and she sat down on the lid of the toilet looking at the body on the floor even though her eyes did not see and her body did not feel.

At some point reality sunk in thought. Right now she was free. Free for the moment, she could walk out of this seedy motel and find a quiet alleyway and just think. So long underground and so long in vans and rooms had made fresh air seem like a gift and besides it was cold outside and she needed fresh air like she needed water. Perhaps it would help.

But there was one more thing that she wanted to do. One more thing she had fantasied about doing for a long time. It was the one thing that remained constant throughout all of it.

She wanted his fucking mark gone.

Bob had thought it funny to brand them one day with a lighter for B. It was small only the size of a nickel but it was there and she wanted it gone. She wasn't sure what she was anymore, victim, murderer, dead girl walking, but she sure as shit wasn't Bob's.

She had been right about the man who she'd been sent too tonight too. A quick look at what he had brought with her made her shudder. She had been a thorn in Bob's side for too long, a painful, humiliating death with a Jack The Ripper wannabe was his way of getting revenge.

Carefully she took the knife staring at the sharpened edge and then she brought it down on the brand that was on her leg near her knee and though it was agonisingly painful she cut the fucking thing off.

Wiping down the blood (not that it made much difference) Bridget pushed herself to her feet and staggered to the door. She made it to the back entrance, made it outside to feel the cold air hit her skin and before she knew it she was gone, gone from the dead body, gone from Bob, gone from the deaths of her entire family, gone from being Bridget Voight and the thoughts that she seemed to have crowding her mind. She could feel cool air on her skin, she was free, for how long it didn't matter—she suspected that one way or the other death was just around the corner and…and…

For the second time it seemed, Bridget Voight had vanished.

And there you go, I hope you like and I will do my best to bring you the next one sooner rather than later.

Next Chapter-Olivia Benson finds a bloodbath and in doing so finds fingerprints that may help the beginnings of an investigation. This is where the crossover begins.