Author's Comments: I love this chapter. Not sure why, maybe it's because I know shit's about to get real. And I like the last line. Ah ah ah …no reading ahead!

Chapter Twenty-Two

Olivia looked like she was praying to a toilet god, kneeling over the porcelain bowl like an altar, her hands clasped over her lowered head as she heaved into the water. Elliot held her hair back to keep it from falling into her face. When she finished, she stayed frozen in place for a moment and said, "If I'm ever tempted to do heroin again, remind me of this moment."

He helped her stand and handed her a wet washcloth for her face. Even with her face ashen, misery in her sunken eyes, and tussled hair, she was beautiful, like an angel fallen out of heaven. She rubbed her face with the washcloth and threw it in the sink, averting her eyes from him and from the mirror, and he put his arm around her and helped her out, although she didn't really need his support anymore.

She was coherent now, and he had never felt such a weight off his shoulders as he had when she started talking to him, really talking to him like she understood. For an hour or so after the others had left, she had laid on the couch on her side, like Amanda had commanded, her head against his leg like a pillow, and he had stroked her hair and watched her chest rise and fall in a shallow, unsteady rhythm.

It wasn't until she had started vomiting that she found sudden strength to propel herself to the bathroom, and she had been back and forth ever since. That must have brought down the high, because she could now talk to him and have a conversation, and not just some garbled mush of unrelated words.

Now he walked with her to the couch, and then went to the kitchen to get her a glass of water. When he handed it to her, he sat down next to her while she took delicate sips, and then she set the glass down and draped herself against him. "Oh God, I feel like shit, El."

He wrapped a protective arm around her and pulled her body into him even more, and she rested her arm across his chest and her head against his neck. "I'm sorry, Liv," he said softly. "Do you remember what happened yesterday?"

"Not really," she croaked, her voice hoarse. "When I start hearing voices and imagining things, it's like I blank out. I remember bits and pieces, like running from someone I thought was behind me. And hiding out behind a dumpster—I remember that."

"And the woman who shot you up?"

"Vaguely." She sat up and pulled away from Elliot, shaking her head. "I'm never going to be back to my old self, am I?"

He rubbed her back. "Of course you will, Liv. This is temporary—remember that. You made it through PTSD before—"

"This is different," she said, shaking her head again. "It's like I'm out of touch with reality."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her face on her hands, silently ruminating. And then she turned her head toward him, and all he saw in her eyes was deep pockets of dread. "I'm scared, El. For myself, for Noah—"

"Shhh . . ." he said, massaging her neck. "You'll get through it, Liv. Don't give up. I'm going to be here for you—I'm taking time off work so you don't have to be left alone."

"No, Elliot, you don't have to—"

"No," he said emphatically. "It's already done. I already called and got the time off."

Her eyes met his again, and a weak smile formed on her lips. "Thank you, Elliot," she whispered, a tear escaping from the corner of her eye.

And then she leaned into him again and embraced him with a shaky hug, and he let his face become buried in her hair. "It's no problem, Liv."

She remembered more than what she had told him, but what she recalled was mainly in her head. There had been intense panicky moments when she was sure someone was after her, and terrified times ducking in and out of alleys escaping someone who she was sure would do horrible things to her. She remembered the exact moment the junkie had stuck the needle in her arm, because from that moment on, she had been in an untouchable, relaxed state where no evil could reach her. For the first time since Tucker attacked her, she felt at ease.

If she could have just stayed there forever, she would have been content. She now understood how people could allow themselves to fall into such a horrible, life-altering addiction.

The only problem was coming back to reality.

Her friends, God bless them, had not let her sleep, and she hardly even rested, her high interrupted by their constant chatter about real life problems, like OD'ing and paramedics and heartrates. She couldn't be bothered with such trivial matters, when she was floating on clouds.

Coming down was harsh. Her body ached, and she threw up God-knows-how-many times, and she was irritable as fuck. She hated them for making her stay awake, and then when they finally let her go to sleep, her nerves rattled so much that she couldn't.

When her co-workers left, Elliot was so sweet, and she didn't want the warm fuzzy feelings between them to end. But it had been a few hours now, and all she could do was pace, the restlessness and paranoia returning larger than ever now that the heroin was completely out of her system. And now the sun was up again, so sleep would never come for her.

"You okay?" Elliot said, watching her pace back and forth like a damn hamster.

"Yeah," she said, rubbing her arms like she was cold, but she was actually sweating profusely. Her eyes darted here and there, looking out for dark dangers lurking in shadowy corners, but she knew the real monster was growing inside her. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," he said, staring at her back-and-forth wandering like he was watching a tennis game. "Why don't you come sit down?"

"Nah," she said, shaking her head. "Maybe I'll go take a shower."

"That's a good idea," he said. "I'll go get it started for you."

But she didn't really want a shower. What she really wanted was to rid herself of the blackness blanketing itself over her right now. Voices intruded into her mind, whispering into her ears, and she hugged herself tight and tried to squeeze them out. But there was only one way she knew of to escape the torture in her head, and it was not a good option, not at all.

But the more she allowed the sliver of a thought to inch its way in, the more it seemed like not only the best choice, but the only viable one at all.

Then she shook her head and resumed her pacing. She couldn't do that to Elliot again. And she certainly couldn't do it to her child, or herself, for that matter. To become a heroin addict was the worst fate a person could possibly seal for themselves—she had seen it time and time again. She would not allow herself to fall down that demon-riddled hole.

"It's comin', baby."

"Shut up!" she said, a little too loud.

Elliot peeked his head out at her and said, "What?"

"N-nothing."

Dangerous fiends hissed in her ear, and she whirled when someone touched her on the shoulder. Her skin prickled at the light dancing with dark in the corners of her apartment. She rubbed her arms, then scratched at her flesh, not wanting to feel it crawling. Heroin, or countless more hours of this. Those were the choices facing her—instantaneous relief, followed by apologies and consequences at some later time, or more nausea and constricting, closing-in walls with no end in sight.

She headed to the door, grabbing her keys and fishing some cash out of her wallet on the way. Her hand on the door froze when Elliot said, "Where are you going?"

He was standing in the room with her, and she hadn't even seen him come in. That alone was enough to make her jump out of her skin. "Out," she said, turning the handle.

He was at the door now, holding it closed with one hand, his presence so close to her she could feel his breath on her hair. He gently laid a hand on hers, the one clutching the door knob with white knuckles. "No, you're not. Step away from the door, Liv."