Disclaimer: No one and nothing is mine, blah blah blah. Everything belongs to a brilliant genius named Dick Wolf. Mimicry is the greatest form of flattery, or so I'm told . . .
Olivia won't undress in front of me, and even though she doesn't talk about it, I have a pretty good idea why. I've glimpsed the scars on her arms when she thought I wasn't looking, some deeper than others, some newer and some etched into her skin, from long ago. It's how she deals with her pain. It's not a particularly good coping mechanism, but it is a coping mechanism, which is a start. I'm not her mother or her therapist, and so I bite my lip and don't say a word. It hurts me to see Olivia hurting, but I swallow my protests, knowing that any objection I voice will further alienate us.
At night, we curl up together in bed, Olivia wearing long sleeves and me wearing a tank top, or sometimes nothing at all. I don't push her. I know better. I just do what I can, holding her as she sleeps, just to reassure her that I'm there for her. Always.
I can't say if it's right or it's wrong, but maybe it's the only way. Sometimes when the pain runs too deep through our veins, we have to take what we can get.
I hope you enjoyed this. Please review!