A/N: Oof. This is dark and heavy. TW for violence and SA, oh and some nasty language. Sorry. There might be a little wait before I'm able to update this story because I have some schoolwork and a trip coming up, but I promise I'll post a new chapter as soon as possible!
…
CHAPTER 13
Her life will end here.
Of that she's certain.
It's not that she has accepted it. More like she just knows. The same way you sometimes know, when you turn off your alarm in the morning, that it's going to be a bad day. Or when there's a bug going around and you can sense the body aches setting in before you're actually sick.
She knows that her life will end here, in this room, with this man. This unknown, faceless being.
Question is, if it will end quickly or slowly. Painless, or painful.
And judging by the situation she's in, she's thinking it will, sadly, be the latter.
Fighting the instinct to scream for help, beg for her life, do all the things that might be expected of her in this moment, she instead closes her eyes. Slowing down her breaths, until it finally feels like her brain is once again on the receiving end of some much needed oxygen.
She might die here, but she refuses to go out screaming and begging. She won't, can't, give him that satisfaction.
So instead of giving into that very specific urge, to allow herself to break, she moves her thoughts away from this room, away from this prison, and all the sadness and violence that these walls hold.
She thinks about Frannie, and who might take her when she's gone. According to Nick and his conversations with Fin, it's very possible that that's exactly where she'll end up. Fin won't admit it, of course, but apparently he, quote on quote, doesn't "totally hate having a dog around".
She thinks about her family. Her dad that she hasn't heard from in years. Her mom, who she barely talks to after moving to New York. She thinks about Kim, and her heart breaks a little then. Will she be ok without her? Will her little sister survive in this world that was always a little too big and a little too tempting for someone like her? Will she make it on her own?
She thinks about the squad. This new group of people who have so quickly become her safety net, very much aware of the fact that she's still the new kid that they're getting used to. And her heart breaks again, because she knows that Cragen will blame himself for this. He will say stuff like "I shouldn't have let her. She wasn't ready."
And maybe I wasn't.
Then, inevitably, she thinks about her. And since she's about to die, she sees no reason to fight or downplay her feelings anymore.
It doesn't matter anyway, because she won't be alive to tell her; What she sees when she looks at her. How she feels when they're in the same room. How her heart beats a little faster when their eyes meet.
No, she will never get to say these things out loud. So she might as well admit it now, here in silence and only to herself, that she's been falling in love with Olivia since their very first handshake.
What a fucking waste.
"Are you scared?" A voice suddenly says. And she opens her eyes in response, turns her head slightly, in an attempt to make sense of where it's coming from. But there's nothing but darkness. Maybe, if she concentrates enough and squints her eyes just so, she can make out the contours of something, someone.
It gets her nowhere.
But that voice, however. Hasn't she heard that voice before?
"Tell me-" He continues, and once again, she forces herself to relax her body, to focus on the familiarity in the way he speaks.
If he's gonna kill me, I want to know who did it.
"How are you feeling?"
It's Eric.
His voice sounds softer, almost feminine, but it's him.
And while shock or surprise might be the logical reaction to this discovery, she finds herself mostly disappointed.
In herself that is.
It's her job to spot the psychos, the sadists and monsters. It's her job to look past the obvious, and notice the creatures that hide in the shadows. She's trained for this, prides herself even, on being good at it. But lying here, tied to a bed, helpless and alone, she finds that she has failed. Completely.
"Don't feel like talking?" Eric asks, and she sets her jaw, mostly because she can sense that he's moving closer, each step merciless in their own way. The closer he gets to her, the closer she is to pain, and then, the inevitable.
"That's ok." He murmurs, his tone light and casual.
He's too relaxed for her liking. Relaxed means that he's not expecting to make any mistakes. Relaxed means that he has done this many, many, times before.
It means, she realizes, that she's about to fall victim to a serial killer.
"We have time." He says, sighing into the darkness, a chill running through her body as she catches the smile in his voice.
…
And apparently they do, have time. Because he falls silent again, seemingly just standing there, patiently. Minute, after minute, each one longer than the last.
On a rational level, she knows that unless Eric Gray is some kind of other-worldly monster that only exists in horror movies, he can't see her either. And it should bring her some kind of comfort, but it doesn't.
It doesn't bring her any comfort at all, because not only does it confirm her theory about him being guilty of doing this multiple times in the past, to multiple women. It also makes her nauseous, knowing that he's getting off on this; Just the two of them, alone, in the dark. Her, helpless. Him, in control.
And it might sound odd, but right now she finds herself wishing that he would do something, anything, instead of this. Maybe because there's some predictability in violence, in pain.
But it doesn't take long then, until she takes it all back. Wishing he had stayed in his corner. Because when she finally feels it, the touch of his hand, she flinches violently, gasping from the unexpected sensation against her bare skin.
How she didn't notice before, the fact that she's only wearing underwear and nothing else, she doesn't know. It explains why she's so cold and why she woke up feeling exposed and vulnerable, but actually realizing it is something else.
Something else entirely.
"It's ok-" He laughs, running his fingers down her sides. "It'll be over soon."
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, as his hand shifts lower, and lower, until she can't take it anymore.
"Don't-" She says, finally finding both the will and the ability to speak as she squirms, as if moving a few inches away is somehow going to save her.
Of course, it doesn't, and he touches her again.
"You're very… reactive." He mumbles, moving his hand over her stomach, and up, just barely ghosting her left breast.
She holds her breath then, eyes closed, waiting for him to grab her there, for his careful touch to turn into violence. For him to rip apart the white bra, and-
Surely, that's where this is going?
But in an act that both surprises and unnerves her, he doesn't grab anything. His hand seems to linger over her breast for a while, but instead of hurting her, he moves the hand to her forehead, and it's only then that she realizes he's standing behind her.
Tilting her head, she finally gets a glimpse, now that he's close enough, of his face and features.
And maybe it's that; knowing where in the room he is, knowing, for sure, who he is, that gives her back some of her confidence. Some, not all. But she is, after all, fairly good at pretending.
"Hi Eric." She says, keeping her voice steady, arching a brow. "Having fun?"
He grins in response, and even though it goes against every single fiber of her being, she grins back.
"You have no idea." He says, caressing her forehead in the same way you would comfort a child.
It rushes through her then, a newfound energy fueled on by rage and fury, spreading from her cold feet to the very spot under his palm.
I gave up too quickly, she thinks, her stare unwavering as his eyes burn into hers. I'm not fucking dying here. I can't.
…
Ok, first things first. She needs to figure out if she's down here as Amanda Irwin, or Amanda Rollins. And she needs to get him talking. For the sake of a confession, yes, but also because she needs to buy more time, as much as possible.
"Whatever happened to just asking a girl out?" She asks, and as much as she despises it, she arches her back a little, hoping that his eyes have adjusted enough to notice.
He laughs, and it makes her nauseous again, but there's a hint of something else there. A nervousness that wasn't there before, and she realizes that she must be the first of his victims to not resort to the most natural thing in the world; The begging and the screaming, that is.
"It's more fun like this." He says, moving his hand away, giving her body a brief break from his suggestive touch. It only lasts a moment however, because next, he has both hands on her bare shoulders, gliding down her arms and up again, making her bite back the sudden urge to gag.
"Besides-" He continues. "Girls like you don't go on real dates."
"Girls like me?"
"Whores, prostitutes, sex workers-" He shrugs. "Whatever term you prefer."
It's settled then. She's still Amanda Irwin, arrested a second time for public indecency, among other things.
And he just revealed his type, a quick glimpse into his modus operandi.
"I'm good with whore." She shrugs, continuing their conversation while she contemplates her next move, deciding that even though revealing her true identity might make him rethink this, might make him question his choice of victim, there's also the possibility of him panicking and killing her right away.
So she stays in character.
"Don't you feel any shame?" He asks, moving to stand by her side. And there is some serious disdain in his tone now, a very real, very strong sense of contempt.
"Shame about what?" She responds, adding some flirt to her voice, just to see what happens.
She finds out quickly.
So quick in fact that she doesn't register the pain right away. Only when he yanks her by the hair, forcing her head back, does she notice how her right cheek seems to be on fire, realizing that he just slapped her.
"Don't play stupid, you little cunt."
It's really hard not to cry when someone smacks you across the face. So she accepts the few tears rolling down, blinking rapidly in an attempt to regain some sense of control.
"I'm sorry." She says, almost whispers, waiting for him to let go of her hair. "I'm sorry."
"Then answer me." He orders, letting go before moving to the other side. "Do you feel any shame at all?"
"Yes." She answers, exhaling the breath she's been holding, hoping it was the right response.
"Then you understand." Eric smiles, making her shrink when he lifts his hand, only to once again run it over her forehead, gently.
"You need to punish me." She nods. And if her life wasn't in immediate danger, she might've laughed at how stereotypical this is. How utterly, straight out of a textbook, he really is. The mommy issues really are strong with this one.
"Yes!" He says, eagerly, as if he's a teacher and she's the student who just solved a complicated equation. "You get it."
Oh, I get it, you fucking psycho.
She doesn't say that, she stays silent instead, considering her options and where she should take this conversation to gain some much needed time. Briefly wondering if anyone has even noticed that she's gone. If anyone is even worried about her.
But before she can speak, he moves to stand down by her feet, and if she wasn't feeling exposed enough before, she definitely is now. And when he grabs her ankles, running his hands up and down her naked calfs, she can't help the reflexive kick of her legs.
"You can fight all you want, Amanda." He says, calmly, and she hates the way her name sounds coming from his mouth. "But trust me, they've all kicked and screamed before, and it didn't get them anywhere."
"How many?" She asks then, her voice cold, suddenly finding herself in cop mode.
"Including you?" He tilts his head, his eyes roaming over her body. "Sixteen."
"Impressive." She says, painting a graphic image in her head of killing him, stabbing him, shooting him, anything, to wipe this scum off the face of the earth. "You know what you're doing then."
Another mistake, clearly, because he's no longer down by her feet, but by her side, hands wrapped tightly around her neck.
"Yes." He growls, hissing like a snake, adding pressure. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
She squirms, kicks, twists her head, but his hold is relentless.
And then, after what might be twenty seconds, might be twenty minutes, everything goes black.
…
The first thing she notices when she regains consciousness is how uncomfortable it feels to open her eyes. And there's a flicker of hope then, because light is good, right? Light means she's no longer down there, in that room, with him?
But just as fast as hope appeared, it dwindles down, because her hands and legs are still restrained. She is still very much tied up, stuck.
At least I'm alive, she thinks. Vaguely recalling that all consuming panic settling in the pit of her stomach moments before she passed out.
"Good." He says, stepping into view as she squints to take him in, the room, now bright, swaying around him. "Got me a little worried there."
"Worried you ruined your fun too quickly?" She responds, blinking, her words immediately followed by a cough, reminding her of her bruised or possibly broken ribs.
In lieu of giving an actual answer, he simply stares at her, eyes landing on her neck where she suspects that the aftermath of his attack is visible.
Smirking, he runs a finger over the dark red marks on her skin, repeating the movement a few times before traveling further down to her chest.
She no longer knows what to expect from this man, she'll give him that. It doesn't matter that she has studied every single thing there is to know about men like him; Serial killers, psychopaths. In the end, they all have their own, very specific sense of style when it comes to how they treat their victims. And it seems like his style is this; Unpredictable, never allowing his prey to foresee his next move.
His next move, as it turns out, is fast, and savage.
In the blink of an eye, he turns, picks up something she will soon recognize as a scalpel, and cuts through the material between her breasts, forcing the bra to split in half. In the process, he nicks her skin and she lets out an involuntary cry, more from the shock than anything else.
And it sinks in then, when she lifts her head instinctively to stare down at her now naked chest and the blood that trickles down in the middle, that he's about to mutilate her.
For hours now, she's been holding back her screams, but in that moment, she nearly loses the fight.
Just nearly, however. Because she still has one wild card left. One thing she can use to surprise him, throw him off, live a little longer.
"Eric-" She says, her voice trembling, but calm, eyes on the blood that seeps from the small cut, realizing that the more she looks, the more it burns. "There's something you should know about me."
"Yeah?" He breathes, transfixed on the silver blade that he keeps moving just an inch above her breast, sliding it slowly over her nipple, smiling when she shivers underneath him. "And what is that?"
He takes the bait.
It's now or never, and for all she knows, these might be her last words ever spoken. But it's her only resort, so what other choice does she have?
"I'm a cop." She tells him. Forcing herself to look at his face and not the scalpel now dangerously close to cutting into her pale skin.
As her heart hammers wildly against her ribs, she waits for a reaction, anything at all, but when his only response is to glance up at her, expressionlessly, she continues.
"My name is Amanda Rollins, not Irwin. I work at Manhattan SVU, and I'm here undercover."
Eric stills, studies her, narrowing his eyes, his hand unmoving.
"You're lying." He says, and she finds it impossible to read his tone, but when he takes a step back, she breathes just a little easier. He might still kill her, but at least he has paused the process of cutting off her breast. For now.
"I'm not." She shakes her head. "You can call your warden right now. He'll-"
"Shut up!" He interrupts, the scalpel falling to the floor as he charges towards her, grabbing her chin, hard. "Stop talking."
"Ok-" She whispers, nodding as much as she can in his hold. "Ok."
Maybe it's his erratic nature, or the exhaustion finally setting in, but there's a sudden surge of hopelessness then. Her entire system overwhelmed with this sickening feeling that it's over. She's done. She can't do this anymore. She can't keep her emotions at bay. She can't stop the tears, now flowing. It's over, or at least it will be soon, and she figures there's some comfort in that, because she is just so intensely, unbearably tired.
"Look at me." He orders, his fingers still gripping her jaw roughly.
Blinking through the tears, she does. Her eyes pleading, his searching.
Ten seconds, fifteen, thirty, sixty. The moment seems to go on, on, and on-
"You're lying." He says again, his voice now cold and distant, letting her chin go as he turns to pick up the knife.
Then, the one thing she promised herself she wouldn't do. The one thing she suspects brings him more glee and satisfaction than anything else; The begging.
"Please-" She whimpers, writhing, pulling at her restraints. "Please."
"No." He says, calmly, once again holding the scalpel, once again moving towards her, his breaths heavy. "We're done now."
"No, Eric. You're done now."
She's utterly convinced that the voice she just heard was all in her head, a mere hallucination caused by the trauma, the isolation, the way her senses have been played with and manipulated for hours on end.
So maybe that's why she doesn't turn to see where it was coming from, who was saying it, because surely there's no one else here, no one to save her.
Except-
"What are you doing here?" Eric says, sounding an odd mix of shameful and confused. "Get out."
"It's over." The other voice responds, and she finally turns then, only to recognize Miller, the warden, her mind slowly processing the fact that he's not only real, standing right there, but also holding a gun.
"You made a mistake." He continues, and it confuses her because why is he moving like that, looking like that? Why does he sound so heartbroken?
"You won't shoot me." Eric mumbles, clearly unconvinced, in spite of the grin on his face.
A lot, too much, happens next.
Someone shouting, running, far away, but close enough for her to catch it. Eric, laughing? And Miller, looking utterly defeated, aiming the gun, first at her, then back at Eric. He shoots.
Then, footsteps, more, closer, faster. Her unsteady glance shifting from her side where Eric was just standing, to Miller, now hovering over the man on the floor, and then finally, to the door.
One, she counts, two, three, willing the footsteps closer, and simultaneously not trusting for a second that she might be safe. What if it's Pike? What if Miller kills her too? What if-
Liv.
It's her.
It's you.
"Amanda-" Olivia says, nearly whispers, slowing her steps as she reaches the doorway.
Gun raised, their eyes meet for only a second before Olivia turns her focus to Miller. "Drop the gun." She orders, stepping into the room. "Now!"
The warden looks at her, his stare blank and distant. Lost.
"I'm sorry." He says, turning to Amanda first, and then back to Olivia. "I'm sorry."
Then, his gun in his mouth. Olivia screaming "no!". The pull of a trigger. The sound of one single gunshot.
And Miller's body lifeless on the ground, next to the man he killed just minutes ago.
…
There's a beat, after, as a deafening silence settles in the room, the only sound at first being Olivia's breaths, shallow and rapid as she stares at the two bodies, unmoving, blood pooling around them.
But as soon as she hears the first sob, her attention shifts back to Amanda immediately, rushing over to her side.
"I'm here." Olivia says, moving to untie the rope. Just as she's about to get the first knot undone however, she's stopped by the sound of someone calling her name.
"Liv?"
Nick's voice is distant, but moves closer as they hear him running down the hall, hurrying towards them.
"No-" Amanda pleads, shaking her head. "Not like this."
And by the look on Olivia's face, the understanding nod, the gentle hand against Amanda's chin, she gets it. She knows what the other woman is asking, knows that she would ask the same thing if their roles were reversed.
So, she turns on her feet, moving to the door just in time to stop Nick from entering.
"Are you ok?* He asks, out of breath, clearly checking her for any injuries as his eyes move from top to bottom. When he doesn't find any signs of hurt, he tries a glance over her shoulder. "Is she in there?"
"Wait here and call an ambulance." Olivia says, holding up her hand to stop him, pressing the hand against his chest when he tries to move past her. "That's an order, Amaro."
His expression might be one of disapproval, confusion, but he nods nonetheless, mumbling a quiet "understood" before she turns, once again shifting her attention back on Amanda.
"I'm right here-" She says, quickly freeing Amanda's hands before doing the same with her legs. "It's over." Then, she pulls off her jacket, no words spoken between them as she helps her put it on, mindful of the blonde's scrubbed skin around her wrists, the bruises on her side, the cut between her breasts.
"Liv-" Amanda says, meekly, pleading, leaning into the brunette, seeking warmth and comfort in her presence.
"I know. I've got you." Olivia responds, using all of her strength as she gathers Amanda in her arms, lifting her up. "I've got you." She says again, letting out a trembling breath as she finally moves them out of the room. "It's over."