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Chapter 5

The blurry numbers shift in and out of focus- it takes me a moment to see that it's eight o'clock on the dot. I sigh, pushing myself slowly upright and stretching my aching muscles. I stare at the clock, trying to get motivated to stand up, before I realize why the clock is making me feel so uncomfortable.

He throws me down, forcing my head to the side. I didn't know what was going on, I didn't understand. But I can see a clock...

Twenty six minutes later, I can still see it as he finally releases me.

I shudder almost involuntarily, reaching over and turning the clock around. The memory made me feel slightly sick, and I stand up, walking aimlessly towards the kitchen.

I didn't dream last night. In all six hours of sleep, I don't remember any dreams. I suppose I'm grateful for that; one would think that I would have nightmares.

I shake my head at the thought, heading to Olivia's fridge and beginning to search for anything edible. No, just because I was raped does not mean I will become any one of the brokenhearted, lost women I see and work with every day. I am fine.

There's nothing in Olivia's refrigerator save for the cheap alcohol I made a dent on last night- oh, well. I'm not really a breakfast person anyway. A bowl of cereal is the most I'll do, and that's on the weekends. Even then, when I'm so bored I have nothing else to do. Too much rich food in the mornings makes me nauseous, and now, when there is already a hard knot in the pit of my stomach? No thank you.

It's Saturday. I don't have work. Normally, I'd go out for a run or to the batting cages- can't do either in my condition. I'm not really in the mood to just lie around Olivia's apartment and watch TV… I suppose I could go into work, despite the fact that it's Saturday. There's always more paperwork, right?

No, my leg hurts too much. I have to limp to even walk at all and I remember how hard it was to work yesterday, with my leg and my arm. I suppose I'll stay here. I do have those files in my briefcase that I was working on last night. One would thing there is absolutely nothing more I could do to prepare for court, but hey, there's not such a thing as too prepared, as they say.

I take another burning hot showe-r- because yes, I suppose it made me feel worse last night, but I want another one. It's when I'm combing my hair out that I realize I'm starving. My stomach is growling and Olivia's cheap beer is not going to satisfy it. It takes a minute to realize that I didn't have dinner last night. I'm actually a little dizzy, come to think of it.

Well, I suppose I could order out. It's a little early for takeout, but I'm really hungry and I'm not interested in heading out into public. I look horrible and I know it.

I curl up into a loose ball on the couch, tying my dripping hair back into a ponytail. I can hold out for a few more hours; I'll order some food when it's closer to noon. Until then, though, I need to find something to keep myself occupied. I suppose I could call Olivia and find out what happened to keep her in Philadelphia.

Really, it's the least I could do- after all, I'm using her apartment without even bothering to ask or tell her.

Finally, I grab my cell phone off the table and dial her number- whether it's to really find out what's happened to her or because I just need a friend right now, I don't know. Probably a combination of both.

The phone rings three times before Olivia answers. "Hello?"

"Hey, Olivia, it's Casey. It's not a bad time, is it?"

Olivia sighs, and I lean back against the couch, glad to have my friend's voice with me. She's already distracted me. "No," she says. "You're just interrupting my week long imprisonment in the boring city of Phili. I'm in Starbucks; the crappy motel room the police here have put me up in for the week is too awful to spend time in. I'm actually afraid to sleep there; who knows what disease I'll get. So, what do you need?"

I smile, laughing in spite of myself. "Well, I'm actually quite bored myself. The captain didn't tell me much; so I decided to call you and find out why exactly you're stuck in Philadelphia. If it's really that horrible, I'm sure I could have a few words with the ADA and get you home sooner."

Olivia chuckled again. "No, it's fine. Thank you, though. And, the reason I'm stuck here is because I was a witness to a shooting yesterday. The other two witnesses are a little girl too young to testify and a drub addict who's testimony isn't even admissible. So the prosecution subpoenaed me to testify and I can't leave until I have. You know, it would have been nice to get away from the courtroom and perps for the weekend."

"I'd bet. Well, nothing much if happening up here. We've got a tough case, but that's par for course around here. El and Munch are still off work, so it's just me and Fin… truth to be told, I think Fin's a little mad at me."

"Oh really? What'd you do?"

I hesitate before deciding to tell a half-truth. "It's a very long story. He wants to give a perp a deal, and I disagree. Don't worry, I'm sure it'll all be water under the bridge by the time you get back. We get new cases so often we can't afford to hold grudges for very long."

"Right. Well, you two, behave. I don't want to get back and- damn it. Hold on for a second, Case, I've got another call. …and, it's the ADA. Sorry, I'm going to have to let you go."

"I understand. Bye, Liv."

"Bye."

Once Olivia hangs up, I lie back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a smile. Talking to Olivia had helped- more than I expected it would, honestly. I feel much better and decide that I'm up for doing more than lying on the couch. All right, so my leg and shoulder are a little sore. I can still work.

Lucky for me, my laptop just happened to be in my briefcase when I grabbed it and ran. So, with as prepared for trial as I'm going to get, I check my email before researching all recent cases and changes to sex crimes laws. Anything important would have been in the news, but you never know what minor changes to the law can save a court case.

No matter how driven I am, picking through the intricate, complex workings of New York law is not easy. It gives me a headache and by noon, I can't stand it anymore. "Ugh!" I cry in frustration, slamming my laptop shut and throwing my head back against the couch. "Oh, for the love of god. Is it really too hard to write in plain English?" I get up angrily and stalk back into her kitchen, fully aware that I'm more upset over this than I should be. Well, today I just don't give a damn. I'm tired, I'm in pain, and I just spent three hours picking through legislation that would confuse Judge Taft- I think I deserve the right to be a little pissed off.

I order a pizza and watch TV until it arrives, but when it does, I can't motivate myself to keep working on New York law. It's not that daytime TV is that interesting; in fact, it's mind-numbingly boring. And that's not what I want. I want- no, I need something to hold my interest right now. Sitting here idle isn't helping anybody.

So, while I eat, I watch TV and force myself to return to my case files. I laugh bitterly when I realize I could never be this comfortable in my own home again. "To Olivia," I murmur to myself, toasting my glass of water to empty air. "Who knows what I'll do when she gets back in town."

The hours pass and I make little progress on my work. I'm exhausted due to only getting six hours of sleep last night and nearly none the night before, my leg and shoulder ache- though that may be more to me over-using them yesterday- and, just like yesterday, I'm a mess. I think I cried three (four?) times today. I hate crying, and I hardly ever do it.

"Damn it, Danny," I mutter harshly under my breath when I glance at the clock and see it's midnight. "Why the hell did you have to screw everything up?"

Well, I might as well take a shower and go to bed. It's late and I don't feel like doing anything but getting some well-deserved sleep. When I get up off the couch for the first time in- my god, at least ten hours- I nearly scream in pain when my leg protests and practically cripples me. I would have fallen if I hadn't managed to use the couch as a crutch. "Son of a bitch!" I gasp through my teeth and double over in agony, slamming my fist against my good leg and forcing back the scream rising in my throat.

Hot tears form in my eyes and I fight them with all my strength. Emotional pain, I can try to deal with. Physical pain, though, that's something I can actually tame and and conquer, if you will. I won't cry because of that.

When I can finally walk again, I limp towards her bathroom and turn on the shower. Once again, I untie my scarf and grab a spare shirt of Olivia's, resolving to somehow find a way to pay her back for this.

My injured shoulder looks okay. I know, I know, dislocated shoulders aren't usually accompanied with bruises or swelling, but as long as no one walks in and sees me with my scarf-sling, I'm good. The stitches on my leg aren't looking any better than before, but I suppose that's to be expected. And, just like last night, the hot water hurts my skin, and I still ignore it.

Still wearing those torn sweats and my scarf, which is starting to fray, I work on my files until two in the morning, just like last night. Then I turn the TV and lights off and settle in for another night of sleeping on my stomach on the couch. I still can't bring myself to sleep in Olivia's bed. Maybe it's because I know that I'm not here permanently. I don't want to get used to sleeping here and get comfortable before being forced to move again once Olivia returns from Philadelphia. It'll be better for me in the end if I just treat her apartment as what it really is- a temporary place to crash.

After another night of six hours of sleep, I leave my sling and my torn sweats in her apartment and head out. The return of the pain last night made me realize that, if I intend to be able to focus in court on Monday, I need learn how to work past the pain. Despite- or perhaps because of- almost remaining on the couch for the entire day, my leg hurts even more. Well, I suppose that I'm lucky that at least my shoulder doesn't hurt as much.

I walk briskly down the street, doing my best not lapse into a limp. Yes, it does hurt even worse, but that's not the point. Since there are few people out on the streets this early on a Sunday, I'm able to walk as slowly as I need to, until I can move faster.

Now that I'm out and about, I'm starting to feel much better. Like I'm reclaiming who I used to be and finally getting back on my feet after what happened. Yes, I shirked my responsibilities these past few days and relaxed on the couch, letting myself explode into violent outbursts the one day I was at work- but I'm finally feeling like myself again.

After I've been walking for about an hour, my mind starts to wonder to less pleasant topics- such as where on earth I'm going to live now. I may be feeling a little better, but I just can't see myself walking back in there, over where I was raped. The very thought is laughable.

I suppose I can always just get a new apartment and hire a moving crew for all of my things. I'll need to call one of those businesses that cleans crime scenes for all the blood, though. It would be cheaper to just pour a whole bottle of bleach in there- it wouldn't look wonderful, but that's not the point. The point is to erase any evidence that a crime ever happened in my apartment.

I've been walking for over two hours, reducing my leg to nothing but a numb stump, I finally decide to give it a rest. The streets are starting to fill up with people and I'm starting to feel worse and worse about this. I find myself looking around uncertainly, focusing on everybody around me. Are they bigger than me? Could they hurt me?

Finally, I give up. The shock, the fear that practically pummels me- I can't stand it anymore. I hurry into the nearest Starbucks, buy a cup of coffee, and lower my trembling body into a seat, still focusing on everybody around me.

It's not enough. People enter the shop, and I feel my heart rate increase as I look frantically over my shoulder every time I hear the door open. I know I look like a paranoid freak; I don't care. I keep looking worriedly around the small cafe, checking each and every person to make sure they're not able to hurt me.

Finally, I get the idea to simply sit in the corner. That way, I can see everybody, and no one can sneak up on me. After I switch seats, the panicky feelings in my chest does dissipate, if only slightly.

It seems I can't just sit and enjoy my coffee. My mind is wonders back to that night, and… I can't remember. I honestly can't remember it. I know I was raped. I know I fought back. I remember trying to bite him, I remember him dislocating my shoulder, I remember grabbing the plastic bowl and hitting him so hard, so many times, it broke- but that's it. I can't remember what actually happened, just a few short flashes. Everything else? It's just a blur.

I should be able for remember it. That wasn't any other night, for god's sakes; I was frightfully aware and awake and fighting throughout the entire twenty six minutes. I should be able to remember every single second of it.

And I think I know why I can't.

I still can't scream when he pulls me back by my wrists and my hair so I'm on my knees with him sitting on my legs, making it nearly impossible for me to move. And that's when I realize- but no. My mind rebels against the very thought of what I want- no, NEED- to do. 'You won't remember this, you'll get a concussion, no, no, no!

But my logical thoughts can not be conquered by my survival instincts, no matter how horrible my imagination may be. And so, I jerk my head up, smashing it against his jaw once, twice, there's a sickening crack, and-

Gasping, I force my eyes open and fight off my terror, refusing to let myself continue with that line of thought. The memory loss… is it permanent? Is it my fault? I don't know the answer to the first question, but the second one? Yes. A resounding yes. I had known what I was doing when I slammed my head up into his. I had known it could cause memory loss and had done it anyway.

With a low groan, I lean back in my chair and run a hand through my hair. I know the memory loss is my fault. I'm not even going to try and say anything otherwise. Is the rape my fault, though?

I have to seriously consider the question for a few moments before I decide that there is no answer to that one.