I'm having major writers block at the moment, but this came to me whilst listening to A Fine Frenzy's album so I ran with it. I'm hoping it might have done away with the writers block for good now because it seems to have given me some additional food for thought where this fic is concerned! Would love to get some feedback on this, particularly if there are 'moments' mentioned in it that you'd like to see developed into full chapters! Apologies (again) for the delay!

*** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU *** L&OSVU ***

Fight

Through walls and harvest moons, I will fight for you – Last of Days, A Fine Frenzy

I should fight. I know that. I should fight if not for myself then for you. You've fought for me too many times for me to turn my back on you now; to give in so easily. But baby, I'm tired, I'm so incredibly tired. And I hurt. I just want to go to sleep.

I lay here, in the cold, alone and look up to the sky, feeling my eyes begin to close. I could just sleep. It would be better for you really. You pretend you love me, you pretend we have a relationship but we both know better. We both know I've hurt you too often, too many times.

My eyes close, but then I picture your face; angry and stubborn. It's not hard to imagine, they're expressions I've seen on it hundreds of time in the past. Every time I've messed up, every time I've been a lousy mom. It ought to have hurt but actually I always found it preferable to the alternative. When you looked disappointed and sad and like your heart was breaking.

Will your heart break now? If I die? Or are you past caring. Let's face it. This has always been on the cards. I would have died years ago if it wasn't for you; if you'd not been there to save me from myself; if you'd not been there to fight for me.

You did it before you were even born. My pregnancy, ironically, gave me something to focus on other than the violation that had put you there in the first place; kept me fighting. And that was the first time you saved me… but not the last.

I don't need to tell you about each occasion, I don't even really need to remind myself, although in many cases I probably don't remember them as well as you do. I just have glimpses, very slight recollections. All of which are coming back to me now, as I lay here in the gutter; in the cold.

You age four. Clutching a bottle of wine, sobbing.

"Please don't mama. Please don't."

But I did. And even worse I made you help me; talked you through uncorking the bottle because my hands were shaking too much to do it myself. You didn't want to it, you tried so hard to stop me, but in the end I forced you.

How much do I wish I'd listened to you now?

More memories; more fights; more moments in which I resented you and failed to realise that you weren't fighting against me, you were fighting for me.

You age nine. Forcing your little fingers down my throat to make me vomit after you found me slumped at the kitchen table surrounded by pill bottles. What kind of mother was I Olivia? What kind of mother subjects her child to a thing like that?

The same kind of mother who is willing to die in a drunken heap in an alleyway, leaving her daughter alone, just because it's the easy way out. A pathetic, self interested, waster of a mother.

I try and drag myself up, but before I can I'm hit by another memory.

Do you remember the morning I caught you trying to creep out to school with layer upon layer of make up caked on? You were thirteen if you were a day, and I dragged you back into the apartment, assaulting you with a stream of verbal insults, labelling you a slut. All because I was scared that someone would take one look at you and try and rape you.

And why were you wearing make up Olivia? Was it because you had a crush on your math teacher and wanted his attention?

No. It was to hide a large ugly bruise on your cheek. A bruise I'd put there the night before, lashing out at you drunkenly because you tried to take my bottle of scotch away from me.

That's the kind of mother I am. I didn't even remember doing it.

A car goes past in the road at the end of the alley, and the screech of its breaks takes me back to yet another night. When I tried to drive us somewhere, I know not where, drunk out of my mind. I'd only just got my licence back after the last time, so you'd think I'd know better, but when did I ever? I jumped a set of lights, narrowly missed a Mercedes and nearly killed us both. You had to drive home.

You weren't even old enough to have a learners permit.

All over again, I wonder why you still answer my calls. Why you still make an effort to see me. Why would you bother Olivia? Why would you care?

I don't understand it. I just know that you do.

Or did.

It might be different this time. After all, you're going to have to give up on me eventually. There are only so many times you can drag me to rehab kicking and screaming. There are only so many times you can put yourself through that pain.

Look at the last time; the stand off in your squad room, with your work colleagues watching by. I've never seen you so close to losing control baby. I actually thought you were going to break right there and then. I blamed him at the time. Your partner. Thought that whatever feelings you have for him were making you weak.

But actually, for you to show your emotions, that's a sign of strength. I see that now. It's something you never do; you're too ashamed to do, because I never let you. And suddenly you have the support, which gives you the courage to do just that. To break down.

I wonder if he'll be there for you, when I'm gone. I hope he will. You need someone, you always have.

Someone who is the complete opposite of me.

Someone who will fight for you, instead of you having to fight for them.

My eyes close again. I'm tired. I need to sleep.

Goodnight Olivia.

I'm sorry.