I am a wreck. I haven't slept in three whole days, but I can't. I know if I do, I will dream. I can't dream. I can't wake up screaming ever again. I can't thrash around with nightmares, or even, God forbid, wet the bed. I've done that twice now, because once upon a time, she locked me in her closet and tied me up, made me sleep there as a punishment, and I wet myself. Whenever that memory drifts back into my subconscious, I wet the bed again.

The nightmares are awful. It's like I'm back there, being beaten all over again, and I can't take it.

No. I'm bigger now. Braver. Stronger. She wouldn't be able to hurt me, even if she was here. She can't hurt me anymore.

But she can. She's inside my head, always, telling me not to sleep, not to get too close, not to love, not to do anything. She's on my body, all over, in the form of tears and scars. She's in my blood. I will never be able to forget her. I will never be able to release her. I will never be able to let her go. She's a part of me now, and she always will be.

So I work. I don't even go home some days. I leave a spare set of clothes in my office and spend the night doing paperwork, practicing openings, closings. It's probably why I've climbed so high on the political ladder in such a short time, because of my work ethic.

Little do they know.

I sit at my desk and start going through my open cases, deciding which to work on tonight. I have eighteen of them, each one worse than the last. They make me so sad, but then they make me feel better, because there's something I can do to make it better for these victims, like I couldn't do for my former self.

They like me. They trust me, somehow. Maybe they can tell that I was one of them, once upon a time. It's possible.

I'm tired, but I won't sleep. I don't dare.

But five minutes. Five minutes of rest after 72 long hours won't hurt me. It's after midnight; everyone else has gone home. It's okay.

I lay my head down on my desk and for five minutes, I'm at peace, with myself and the world around me.

I'm curled up on the cold hardwood floor next to her bed, where I sleep when I'm being punished. I flinch at each of her quiet snores. The pain in my back is so intense, and I'm trying not to let the open welts come into contact with the floor, but it doesn't work. I bite my lip to stifle my cry of pain. I am not weak. I will not cry.

I hear the bed creak and tense, wondering if she's awake. Sure enough, her voice drifts toward me. "Are you awake?" It's soft, gentle, like it used to be, a lifetime ago.

"Yes," I whisper back.

Her voice hardens, and it's back to the authoritative tone that makes me cringe. "I'm thirsty."

"I'll go get you a glass of water."

"I don't want water."

I look up at her. "What would you like me to get you?"

"Diet Coke."

At three in the morning? But I know better than to argue, so I get up and pad toward the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge for the can of soda. But there isn't one left; we drank them all last night. I freeze, dreading the beating that I know awaits me, but I know there's no point in postponing the inevitable. I have to be strong.

I bring her back a regular Coke and kneel beside the bed. "I'm sorry, ma'am," I say quietly, like the good little girl I've been taught to be. "There isn't any Diet Coke in the fridge, but I brought you a regular Coke."

Her hand comes out so quickly and smacks me hard. "I don't want a regular Coke. I'm on a diet, remember?"

I chew on my lower lip. "What would you like?"

"Diet Coke."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I repeat. "But there isn't any left."

"Then go out and get me some!"

I should know better than to argue, but I guess I haven't learned yet. "It's three in the morning. Nothing's going to be open."

It's the truth, but that doesn't stop her from punishing me. With the strap-on, because she knows I hate it. She ties to me to the bed and thrusts inside me, over and over, and this time I can't stop the tears.

"Alex? Are you okay?"

I start awake and sit up straight to find Olivia standing in the doorway. Shit, I must have fallen asleep.

"Yes," I say quickly. "I'm fine." I hesitate, rubbing my bleary eyes. "What time is it?"

"Six," she replies.

"Oh, sorry."

"Why? You didn't do anything wrong." She passes me a tissue, and it takes me a moment before I realize there are tears still in my eyes.

I wipe them away. "I'm okay," I say, but it's more to reassure myself than Olivia.

She sits down beside me anyway. "You were having a bad dream, Alex. It is okay."

That makes me angry, even though I know it shouldn't. She's only trying to help, after all, but I've been dealing with these nightmares for fifteen years, and I've been doing just fine. I don't need her.

Or maybe I'm just denying myself the one thing I want – the one thing I fear – most. Which is Olivia.

Which is someone to love me. Which is someone to hold me when I cry and soothe me after a particularly bad nightmare. Which is someone to treat me well, and never hurt me.

She hesitates, for just a moment. "Do you want to talk about it?"

God, Olivia, of course I don't. If she'd said, "Will you tell me about it?" I might have, so I could pretend I was doing it for her instead for myself. But she didn't. She asked me if I wanted to. And obviously the answer is no.

I flinch when I feel her hand on my back, rubbing soft, comforting circles. I don't know why she feels that such an intimate gesture is appropriate between us, but I don't mind it, not really. I gradually relax and let her rub my back. It feels . . . nice. And not in a sinful way, either. Just between friends, between one person who cares about another. Olivia does care about me. Really, she does, even though I know she shouldn't. I don't deserve her.

"It's okay," she repeats, and suddenly her hand stills on my back. "I'm sorry. I'm making you uncomfortable."

She's felt the tension in my muscles, but I shake my head. It's not Olivia's fault, after all. "It's okay." And then I realize I'm echoing her own words.

"Is it?"

I realize we're talking about two different things. "It was just a dream." I try to make my voice upbeat. "I'm sure you have them, too. It's the job."

Olivia hesitates for just a moment before nodding. "I do, sometimes. But none as bad as that one seemed to be."

I bite my lower lip. "They affect me." The truth; in essence, with a few important details left out.

"They affect me, too." She pauses again. "Sometimes it helps to talk, you know. When this job gets to you. Elliot and I do, and it's what keeps us going."

"It's just hard sometimes," I say slowly, weighing each word. I have to be vague. I can't tell her too much. "There's so much evil in the world. For every monster we send to jail, there are ten more out there that we can't do anything about. For every victim we help, there are ten more out there that we can't save. It just never seems like enough. We can't do enough."

Olivia nods, mulling over my words. "We can't do everything, Alex, but we can do something."

"But it's not enough."

She hesitates again. "It has to be."

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