A/N: Hi friends! I'm so sorry for not updating this story in so long; I was going through finals, and hit some major writer's block, but now, the semester is officially over and I feel like I'm out of the woods! Thank you all for being so patient, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. It picks up right where we left off. MAJOR MAJOR trigger warning for detailed mentions of rape, abuse, and suicide!

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Amanda Rollins can't remember the last time she actually slept through the night.

Tonight is no different. After jolting awake in terror, due to being plagued by another nightmare, the blonde detective finds herself gasping in response to both the fear of her recent subconscious torture, and the fact that she is currently wrapped inside of the arms of her boss. It takes her a moment to recollect the events of the past couple of days, and to remember that she had asked Olivia to come over and comfort her while she was in the midst of yet another panic attack.

This realization causes Amanda to feel a tinge of guilt; slowly dissipating as she tilts her head up and gazes at her boss, who seems to be resting comfortably, despite the fact that they've both fallen asleep while sitting mostly upright on her couch. The younger woman squints her eyes to peer over toward the clock sitting on top of her counter, and is shocked to realize that it is already 2:30 in the morning. As she exhales a lengthy sigh, she is reminded of learning in her Police Psychology course that REM sleep is essential to memory and retaining information. At this rate, she thinks, she's lucky to even remember her own name.

"Fucking...nightmares..." Amanda whispers out loud to herself, cautious not to wake Olivia, or Frannie, who is slumbering peacefully in the middle of the living room. She feels the all-too-familiar anxiety rapidly starting to simmer in her core; her chest rapidly rising and falling, her throat constricting in defense. "Fuck this," she confirms with the nod of her head. Desperate to distract herself, Amanda takes another moment to bask in the impossible beauty of her current situation by averting her gaze up toward Olivia.

Despite the fact that she still feels embarrassed and vulnerable, Amanda can't help but notice how gorgeous the older brunette looks right now: brown strands of soft hair falling out of her loose bun; dark eyelashes that reach well past underneath her eyes because they're so long, and her lips, god, her lips, she thinks, so pink and plump, half-split apart by spontaneous, light snores. Amanda smirks with the knowledge that she is safe; the only sounds she can hear in this moment are the snores – a reminder that Olivia Benson is sleeping beside her, alive and well – and the faint sound of crickets seeping beneath the patio door of her apartment.

As the blonde begins to drift back off into sleep, the crickets start to grow louder. They are growing so audible, Amanda mentally considers hopping off of the couch to make sure her patio door is actually shut all of the way. The chirping grows so loud, she can picture the insects rubbing their hundreds of tiny, hairy hands together. Instantaneously, Amanda physically jumps in response to getting bit on her leg by what must be a mosquito; she only lets out a soft whimper, still cautious not to wake Olivia.

Do NOT wake Olivia, she internally repeats, as she rubs the ailment on her skin.

Suddenly, Amanda is alone.

"Liv?" she calls out, both petrified and puzzled by her solitude.

Instead of an answer from her boss, and the familiar feeling of soft cushions underneath her body, Amanda feels sharp blades of grass poking at her bottom, and she is suddenly freezing. Confused, she looks up, and instead of her ceiling, she sees a clear, night sky, littered with stars and the glow of the moon. Normally, this sight would calm her, but something feels off. A slew of distorted, panicked thoughts blow right through her mind: did I get drunk again? Am I blacked out? Where am I? What's happening?

"L...Liv?! Where are you?" she begs in the tone of broken sobs.

A deep, masculine-sounding voice answers her plea. "Lookin' for your girlfriend, Mandy?"

The blonde's eyes widen as much as physically possible when she realizes that her father is the one answering her. He is standing confidently in front of her; arms crossed, in a pair of dirty jeans, a flannel shirt, and a pair of oversized work boots. Behind him is her old house; somehow, she realizes, she has travelled back to Georgia in the midst of nothing but a few short minutes. She is somehow sitting in the middle of their dark front yard in nothing but a pair of shorts and a tank top, stargazing, just like she used to do when she was a teenager and couldn't sleep.

"I always knew you were a dyke," he chuckles, "too bad you don't have a man to save you now. Come to daddy, baby." Amanda can't help but gasp in response, and despite the many years she's had in the police force, all she can do is curl up into a quivering ball on the sharp, damp grass. "This isn't real...this isn't real...this isn't real..." she quietly repeats, desperate to convince herself that she is right.

"Oh it's real, Mandy. Thought you could get away from me, you little slut?"

"This isn't real. You're dead, you piece of shit. You hung yourself..." she chokes out, "and it's what you deserved."

Shortly thereafter, Amanda regrets her last words, as her father is lunging toward her in a manic fury. She immediately shrieks, and her "fight or flight" response kicks in as scrambles to get herself up off of the ground, and to run away, far away from the man who has terrified her for the majority of her life, as quickly as possible.

She can't run fast enough, though, and is quaking in fear as she is kicked in the back of the shins by muddy, wet work boots, and topples to the ground. He pins her arms into the, earth's mushy surface, and looks her dead in the eye with a gaze and a smirk that screams "pure evil." Thus, her "fight" response is quickly activated, and she does everything in her power to get him off of her. She is kicking, screaming, and flailing her arms underneath his vile grip to get the hell away from him. She hates herself for being so scared, but she is in so much pain, and all she wants is to be cuddled back up on her couch alongside Olivia Benson. Olivia Benson, Olivia Benson, Olivia Benson, she mentally repeats so many times that it resembles a mantra. "Livvvvv," she mutters aloud, invoking her name like a prayer, as she feels her daddy's chubby, rough fingers slip aside her tiny shorts.

"Sorry, baby, but you know she can't give you what I can give you," he replies with a smile. Amanda retorts by spitting in his face, but this only makes him angrier. He reaches a hand above his head with a giggle and smacks her dead in the face. Although she is blinded by tears and denial, Amanda is careful not to make him any angrier than he already is. She decides to just let him have his way with her. As soon as she feels him slip inside of her, she immediately dissociates, and her mind is flooded with the images, the sounds, and the smells, of her beloved casino. As he thrusts and pumps with all of his might, she sees the bright lights; she can smell her boozy, smoky fellows; she can feel the poker chips in between her fingers.

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"'Manda! 'Manda! Wake up! Please! Honey, you're scaring me!

Detective Amanda Rollins is brought out of her flashback by the sound of Olivia's screams. "W-what? What happened? Where am I?" the younger woman queries, shaking her head and scrubbing her clammy hands over her face as she tries to get ahold of herself.

"'Manda, honey, it's me...it's Liv. You're at home. I'm here. You're safe. You were screaming and shaking...but your eyes –"

"Honey, I think you were having a flashback."

Amanda looks up at Olivia, dazed and confused; although she doesn't speak a word, her glassy eyes are begging for help. Olivia hesitantly gathers the younger woman up in her strong arms, and tucks the lingering strands of blonde hair behind her ears. "Shhh," Olivia hushes, "you're safe with me."

Shaking her head, Amanda states, "L-Liv...where am I? Is he here? He hurt me..."

"Who, honey? Is who here? It's just you, me, and Frannie."

"Daddy...here was here...or...I was there..."

"Amanda. Your father is dead. You were having a flashback."

"Liv...it wasn't...that...I don't...I don't even remember what he did to me," she chokes out with a stifled sob.

"'Manda," the older woman soothes, "sometimes pain...sometimes...flashbacks...aren't always linear."

"Oh, Liv," Amanda continues with a light cough, "what the fuck is wrong with me?"

"Nothing is wrong with you, sweetheart. You're just hurting..." Olivia continues, "you're absolutely perfect."

Amanda takes awhile to gather her bearings; only finding comfort when she finally manages enough courage to look Olivia in the eyes.

"I'm...so sorry 'bout that, Liv. You were so nice to come over here, and I couldn't even let you sleep."

"Amanda..." Olivia hushes, ready to explain to the younger woman just how wrong she is, before she is interrupted by a weak, sad voice.

"You know...when you get sober, they…the people at meetings…they tell you that your life is going to be better without gambling," she sighs. "But the bad stuff still happens. And you have nothing to numb it. My brain, Liv…my brain…" she exhales as she cups her hands around her head. "Son of a bitch…Liv…I'm really scared I might actually be a bad person."

"Amanda, Olivia lightly chastises, "if you were a bad person…you wouldn't be scared about it. Come here," she concludes, as she inches closer toward the shaking figure on the couch.

The blonde scrubs her hand over her face and tucks more hair behind her ears as she pulls away from her superior. "I really fuckin' hate feelings."

Olivia tries her best to interject, but is again cut short by Amanda's low voice.

"The only feelings I don't hate are the ones I have for you, Olivia Benson."