There is going to be a lot of self-destructive behavior for the next several chapters. Please know I'm not advocating for any form of self-harm, including using substances, hyper-sexuality, self-isolation, intentional risky behavior, and acting on impulsive and intrusive thoughts. But the fact is trauma is life-altering, and it affects one's behaviors. Elizabeth has gone through a lot, and while some of her actions may seem out of character, I am writing about a person who has been completely torn down and lost her support system. I think I have captured her in a way that feels authentic to the character in the circumstances she is in. Please bear with me while I tell this part of the story that I left out of the original. Remember that after all of this pain, there will be light. If you are struggling with self-harm or are in a mental health crisis in the US or Canada, please call 988. If you are struggling with substance abuse disorder, you can call the SAMHSA Hotline at 1-809-662-4357.
Washington, DC – January 2006
Elizabeth can't stand to look at herself. She stands post-shower, staring herself down. She hates herself. She doesn't recognize herself. Her once beautiful blue eyes are bloodshot and tired. Her skin is pale and lifeless. Her cheeks are sunken in, and her body is skinny. Her ribs are still visible. She's back to not eating. She focuses on the physical. If she focuses on the things she deems to be wrong with her body, she doesn't have to think about the emotional baggage she's been carrying.
"How can anyone love this?" She asks her reflection. The woman she's become is a ghost. She's ruined. Every minute of every day, the man's words run through her mind: he'll never want you again. No one will. And his laugh. That evil laugh. Elizabeth shakes her head. It's not real. But she can't breathe. And the walls are closing in.
"Get a grip," Elizabeth says out loud, gripping the edge of the countertop. She grabs her pills and thinks about chewing them like she's grown accustomed to. But it won't be enough. She needs more. More numbness. More silence. More quiet. She can't take the thoughts, and she can't take the memories, and she can't take the pain.
Elizabeth doesn't do drugs. Not ever. She went to a boarding school full of rich, spoiled kids and yet never did coke with them. She did her fair share of partying in college, but only liquor. She didn't even smoke pot. She's not a druggie. At least, she didn't used to be. But she's desperate. She's not quite sure she cares that this is a problem. She's not quite sure that she cares about anything at all. She doesn't want to care anymore. Caring about things is what got her here. It's what made her join the CIA. It made her go to Iraq. And it put her in that fucking room.
And the truth is, her hands are shaking, and she's sweating. And it's only going to get worse. She stares at the bottle. Humans have a ton of blood vessels in their noses. Elizabeth knows this. She knows there is a reason people snort drugs. For most of her life, she didn't have much compassion for people she would've considered junkies. But she understands now: being high, being numb—it's better than the pain. She'd rather feel nothing than the pain. She wants the sweet oblivion. She shouldn't do this. The very analytical, logic-loving part of her brain tries to scream at her not to do this.
This will be a new low. But it doesn't matter. Nothing does. So, she grabs one of George's razor blades and the bottle and sits down on the toilet. She opens the bottle, grabs a pill, and carefully starts to crush the oxy. She knows the nose is the fastest way to her brain. The oxy is a white powder, and she's careful as she separates it and uses the edge of the razor to form it into two lines.
She takes a minute to try and talk herself out of it. She's lucid enough to know that she is losing herself. But then she thinks Elizabeth doesn't exist anymore. Elizabeth Adams McCord died the day she was taken hostage. All that's left is a woman named Lisa—an identity she didn't even get to create for herself. This is what Conrad Dalton wants, and she's giving it to him. Does that matter to her? No. She's not sure if that's a good thing or not. But it's her new reality. She bends her nose to the counter and breathes in. The burn is immediate.
Her throat burns. Her chest is on fire. And then, in the near distance, there's quiet. The images of the man are gone. The memories of the rapes, of the beatings, are silent. For the first time since her rescue, she's at peace.
…X…X…X…
"I want to go to LA," Elizabeth tells George as she pokes food around her plate. She still isn't used to eating full meals. She doesn't think she ever will be again. The drugs don't help. Honestly, food turns her stomach most days since she started snorting the oxy.
"Los Angeles?" George questions. She nods. Elizabeth doesn't know where it came from either. Maybe it's because it's sunny every day, maybe it's because everyone is fake there. And she's fake now, too. Mostly, the idea of starting over there is appealing. She needs a fresh start. She needs a way to escape. She needs to be alone.
George has an obvious look of hesitation on his face, "Why?"
"I can't be here anymore." She says. She feels trapped and closed in. She's relegated to a small apartment in a city she used to share with her family. Her family who are no longer hers. Her husband moved on. Her children no longer know her. Everything she has is gone. And the place that used to be home is suffocating her. She wants out.
"You can't run away, Bess," George tells her. It's not a lecture. George isn't a lecturer. But he's afraid of losing her again. She was dead. For over a year, he grieved his closest friend. He's not willing to do that again.
"It's not running away. It's... starting over. I'm not running." Elizabeth shrugs. She is running. Elizabeth has always had a reckless streak. She's the kind of person that would run toward the gunfire instead of away. He knows he can't stop her. For better or worse, her mind is made up. "I need some time. By myself." She tries to explain. The last thing she wants to do is offend her last friend on earth. But he doesn't get it. She can't be around people anymore—especially people who knew her before. She's not the same person she used to be. She'll never be the same person.
"I'm just not sure Los Angeles is the best place for that." George is skeptical. He can't keep a close eye on her if she's all the way across the country. And LA has a lot of drugs. He's watching her slowly crawl into a hole, and he needs to be there when she hits the bottom.
"George," Elizabeth says, "I just want a fresh start."
He takes a deep breath. He's not convinced, but he won't fight her on this, "Fine." He doesn't say anything else. He's not sure what he can say. He loves her. And he's afraid to lose her again. But she's a grown adult. And she's traumatized. She doesn't know she's hurting him, and he won't tell her.
…X…X…X…
A week later, George is helping her pack her new car with her minuscule belongings. She thinks she should feel sad. Leaving her life behind and officially killing Elizabeth should make her sad. But she doesn't feel much of anything. She can't tell if her numbness over leaving is due to the pills or a genuine lack of feeling.
"I need you to call me Bess. Check-in." George swallows. He can't fathom losing her again. But he won't cry in front of her. He's her rock.
"How often?" She questions, raising her eyebrows.
"Every three days. Or I will come looking for you." George is serious. Elizabeth nods. She's not going to argue with him. He's done a lot for her. And she loves him. She does. It's numbed out with the rest of her emotions, but it's still there. Somewhere.
"I can do that." Elizabeth shrugs. She won't promise him. She's not making promises to anyone anymore. But she will call him. At least, it'll keep him from coming after her.
"And if you need anything, let me know," George tells her, pulling her into his arms. He holds her in the hug tight. If it were anyone else, she would be uncomfortable. But George is different.
"Okay." She agrees. George doesn't release her for a few minutes. He doesn't want her to go. But she needs to. She needs time to heal, and he's not the person who can help her.
"I love you, Bess." He says.
"Lisa." She reminds him. She's using the new name. New name: new identity. It's all part of the plan. She needs to become someone else. Someone who didn't lose everything.
"You'll always be Bess to me," George promises her. Elizabeth smiles sadly at him. She wishes she could believe that.
"Goodbye, George." She gives him a small smile, but it's the biggest smile she's given anyone since she was taken.
"Bye, Bess," George says back, watching her get into her car. He watches her drive away and prays to whoever is listening that he doesn't lose her again.
Los Angeles, CA – January 2006
She's shaking. She doesn't know where to get more. Elizabeth is officially dead. Dead. Lisa has taken her place. And while her body tells Elizabeth's story through her injuries, Lisa won't tell another doctor. However, a doctor would give them to her. They would look at her surgical records and take new scans of her shoulder, and they would give her a prescription that she would go through in four days. She can't do that. But she needs the pills.
She's sitting in a hotel room in LA, the door almost barricaded. She's alone in a locked room again. This time, a prison of her own making. She wonders what the useless shrink she had in DC would say about that. She knows the answer. It's probably not healthy. She doesn't care. The memories are getting worse. The nightmares are becoming more vivid. The drugs make her feel numb. There is no pain and no happiness. She can sit with herself and be. It's the only time she isn't reminded of the torture. It's the only time she isn't reminded of the rapes. Because everything is quiet and dark, she feels nothing. And that's what she needs.
"Think." She whispers to herself. She's shaking. She shouldn't do this. She could stop, here and now. But she doesn't want to. The silence is so much better than the thoughts. The silence is better than the pain.
Lisa stares herself down in the mirror, her now dark hair causing her skinnier face to look sharper and her eyes to look bluer. Her eyes pierce her reflection as she contemplates what to do.
"Fuck." She curses.
Her hands shake. She has to buy it. That's her option. Find a place to buy it. Find a dealer. Find someone who will sell her Oxy. It's her only option. She's not going to make it through the night without a high. She honestly feels like she might die if she doesn't get her hands on it. So, she puts the hotel key in her pocket and walks outside.
She finds herself in a shady bar. She figures that's as good a place as any to find someone willing to sell a stranger drugs. The bar is dark, and the air is thick. She orders a shot of tequila and knocks it back. It tastes like a bar in Pensacola with Henry in his flight suit. Back when she was Elizabeth. Back when the world couldn't do anything to hurt her. It's been so long that she's forgotten the taste.
She sits at the bar and takes in her surroundings. This is when her training is helpful. She's able to observe the people she is sharing space with. For an hour, she watches the man in the corner. He's older and a bit disheveled. She knows he's her best bet. He's watching her. And he's interested. So, she plays her part.
Lisa doesn't look like the kind of girl that buys Oxy. She smiles at him and raises her empty beer. He nods, and she waits for him.
"Can I buy you a drink?" He asks, a smile on his face. She nods.
"That'd be nice," Lisa says, her southern accent dripping. The native Virginian in her doesn't come out very often. She had trained the accent away to a neutral American sound. But tonight, it comes back. She's not sure if she's Lisa or Elizabeth, but the accent is a nice reminder.
"What's a pretty girl like you doing alone in a place like this?" He has a suggestive edge to his voice, not that he'll be getting lucky.
"I need to get straight," Lisa answers with her desperate edge.
"Whatcha looking for, sweetheart?" He questions. He's trying to play the gentleman card.
"Oxy," Lisa answers him truthfully. There's no reason to be coy.
"Five 80 milligram pills for forty-five bucks." He names a price, and she's surprised. She was expecting double that. She can work with forty-five dollars. She pulls the cash out of her pocket and slides it over the bar. She feels him slide the baggie into her pocket.
"Pleasure doing business with you, sweetheart." He leaves her with a smirk and a kiss on her cheek. His lips on her cheek produce such a quick and intense flashback for her. She shoots off the bar stool, nearly running for the bathroom.
Once in the safety of the stall, she dry-heaves. He reminded her of him. Her shaking hands grab the baggie and the razor blade. She cuts the pill into four pieces. Two and a half pieces should last her the night. It should get her high. She should be able to sleep.
"It's not real. It's not real. It's not real." She repeats as she puts her nose up to the handheld mirror she's been using to cut the pills. She breathes the pieces in. One. Two.
It's not real. Nothing is.