A/N: I debated on including the attack in this story, but I felt it was necessary to confront the violence that has shaped her life. To heal, she must face it head-on. If you are not in a place to read the attack scene, please skip it. You can pick it back up with softer language in the section marked with the words January 5, 2019. Thanks, and take care of yourselves.

January 5, 1991

She starts her morning with a run. She's always loved running- her lungs filled with crisp winter air burning in a way that feels alive. There is something freeing about the steady rhythm of her feet against the pavement. But it's even better today as she runs away from the pain and loneliness that is already creeping in. She's spent the last couple of days in their apartment and, frankly, feeling sorry for herself. She misses him so much that her heart aches. He hasn't called yet, and though she knew it was going to be harder for him to call her on the ship than it was when he was in flight school, it doesn't make it any less frustrating.

She's never been one to shy away from a challenge, not when her parents died and not now. She's given herself two days, and now, as the sun rises and her body is covered in sweat, she's ready to keep living while he's gone. Her CIA physical fitness test is in three weeks. She's excited about the unexpected career trajectory. She hadn't gone looking for it. It had found her—three weeks after she graduated with a 4.8, a double major, and multiple honors cords. She applied to a research company she had never heard of. And four days after that, a man named Conrad Dalton knocked on her apartment door. Good Afternoon, Mrs. McCord. I want to extend you an offer to serve your country. She and Henry had talked it over. It's not like he was going to say no to something she wanted to do. So, she had accepted. And then, the qualification process started—polygraphs, interviews, background checks, and psychological fitness tests. She has one test and two classes left to check off the list: physical fitness and classified documents training. And nothing is standing in her way as she turns onto the wooded running path in Langdon Park—except for the mysterious man, his eyes fixed on her, his intentions unknown.

He's been following her for a few weeks around DC. She hasn't noticed- she's busy and distracted. He's stealthy, too. It's not his first time. It won't be his last. He's always been entranced by leggy blondes. But this one—something about her is irresistible. He saw her in a bookstore reading the summary of some foreign language novel. And something inside of him lit on fire. He followed her back to the apartment she shares with her husband. He'd sat on a bench in front of their building, and when he saw the light flick on, he walked up to their window and peered in under the cover of darkness. She's sophisticated and beyond her years. He's always loved the younger girls. So, he watched. He watched her. He followed her. He's waited for his opportunity.

And now, he's going to take. He knows this is his chance. The husband is gone. Her Walkman is playing the new Billy Joel album so loud even he can hear it from six paces behind her. He looks around at the dead winter forest and the silence. Satisfied with the location, he makes his move.

She's blindsided when she's pushed down—her hands fly out, trying to catch herself as her knee twists with the fall.

"What the fuck?" She yells, scrambling to get up. She looks at the man who is holding his hands up in surrender. There is something in his friendly smile that sends a chill up her spine.

"Sorry, miss," He apologizes, reaching his arm down to help her up. She doesn't take the help as she stands on shaky legs. She's still trying to process what's happening.

"You alright?" He asks. She nods, taking a step back from him.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he continues. She doesn't smile or say anything. Her instincts tell her to start running—so she does. But he's fast. He grabs her—one arm around her waist and the other clamped down on her mouth. He easily lifts her off the ground, dragging her literally, kicking and screaming, off the path and into the woods. She can barely breathe through his hand, and he's strong. But she tries with all her might to pull his arm away from her waist. He only holds her tighter.

In a panic, she bites the hand he has over her mouth, and as he lets out a yelp and pulls his hand away, she screams as loud as she can.

"Let me go!" She shouts, hoping someone—anyone—is close enough to hear her, "Help! Someone, please, help me!"

"There's no one around to hear you sweetheart." He laughs, his hot breath on her ear. She tries to push against him, but he's too strong. He's taller than her, and she can't get her feet on the ground.

He throws her hard onto the ground, causing her to lose the breath she has in her lungs. She's gasping for air, her head spinning and her vision blurred. He takes the opportunity to roll her onto her back and straddle her. She feebly tries to push him off, but he catches her wrists, pinning them above her head.

"Get off me!" She shouts, but her voice is getting weaker as bone-chilling terror fills her body, "Please stop,"

"You want me to stop?" He laughs, mocking her by using a voice he'd use to talk to a child. Her heart is racing, and her brain is on overdrive, looking for any way out. She's pinned. She feels hot tears making their way down her cold cheeks. The ground is frozen and ice-cold beneath her, and her hands are numb.

He bends down to kiss her, and she turns her head to the side, closing her eyes tightly and whimpering as his lips press against her skin. When his hips grind down on her pelvis, she freezes. It's as if her whole body has gone numb. No matter how loud she screams at herself in her mind, she cant move.

His hands are grabbing at her sweatpants. And she can't move.

He spits on his hand. It's inside of her. She can't move. Why can't she move? It's as if every nerve in her body has died, and she's just watching this happen. Do something, Lizzie! God damn it, fight him!

His knees force hers apart. He forces his way inside of her. Her brain goes white with fuzz. His grunting sounds like it's coming from underwater. Her eyes focus on the sun shining through the branches of the sparse winter trees. She watches the rays move. There's a rock that has torn its way through her sweatshirt and is now working on her skin as her whole body moves against the ground. Her fingers curl themselves into fists as her body feels nothing but the pain he's causing her. She focuses on the feel of her fingernails digging into her palm, trying to bring her back to reality.

It takes him eighteen more thrusts to finish. She doesn't know when or why she started counting. She's always found comfort in numbers. She's always been able to find the patterns and logic in them in a world that doesn't make any sense. But right now, there is no comfort. She's numb. This doesn't make sense.

He collapses on top of her. She feels her muscles cramp due to the prolonged tension in her muscles. She feels his weight on top of her. His sweat and smell surround her, suffocating her. She can't breathe. Her chest is on fire. She feels like her ribs are being crushed, and her head is swimming.

He kisses her forehead, and she recoils, feeling bile rise in her throat. "Thank you, sweetheart."

This is it, she thinks. This is when he kills me. She's not sure she'd mind being dead. How is she supposed to live with this?

He stands and brushes himself off. She hears as he pulls himself back together and zips up his jeans.

"Count to five hundred, then you can get up," He tells her. She still hasn't moved. She's half-naked on the ground—shivering and staring straight ahead. Her arms are still above her head, her hands still in the position they were in when he had forced them up there. Her eyes are unfocused and teary. She's breathing heavy and shallow as if her ribcage can't expand enough for her to get a comfortable breath.

She starts counting as she hears his heavy steps jogging away. Her body remains still as her brain tries to make sense of the last few minutes. But no matter how many times she tries, it doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. But the numbers. They make sense. So she counts.

As she reaches five hundred, the fog begins to clear from her brain. She feels a searing pain between her legs. Her knees hurt, and the rock is still tearing at her back. She rolls over onto her side. Her body aches with the movement, and her teeth chatter as she shivers. She reaches down to grab her sweatpants that are sitting around her ankle, caught on her Nikes. She pulls them on and ties them, still lying on the ground.

She takes a deep breath, the sharp pain of the cold air piercing her lungs. The pain is almost unbearable. She forces herself to sit up. She stands slowly, not resigned to letting the ground swallow her whole. She looks around for her Walkman, which had fallen out of her pocket at some point during the attack. She spots it on the ground next to the path. She picks it up. She can hear the cassette side A still playing. Less than thirty minutes- that's all it took.

Her stomach flips again. She drops to her knees and dry heaves. She hasn't eaten yet. She never eats before her run. She takes a moment, kneeling in the dirt before her. She takes another breath. And she stands once again.

It's a long, slow walk back to her apartment. The trail is empty, but she keeps looking over her shoulder. Her body is on high alert. Each branch that cracks, each dead leaf that blows around, causes her to jump. She uses all her willpower to ignore the aches in her body as she walks—the burning in her core.

She's near tears once more when she steps out of the park and onto the street. Two blocks to home. Two blocks. She can make it. Her pace quickens no matter the pain. She can't stop looking behind her. She counts the paces to her door as she takes them, and by the time she makes it, her hand is shaking as she turns the key.

She slams the door behind her and locks the deadbolt. She slides down to the floor, her back pressed against the wood. She screams into her hands as she dissolves into a fit of sobs- the hardest she's cried since the night her parents died.

January 5, 2019

Henry swallows as he holds back his tears. The last thing he wants to do is cry. He wants to temper his reactions to her words. But every detail that flows out of her mouth makes his blood boil, and his heart breaks. His eyes are red, and his breathing is shallow. He knows it's taking every ounce of strength Elizabeth has to get through her story, and he knows that the moment she's finished, she will need him.

He hates that he's ignored the signs for so long. His willful ignorance has done nothing for her. His wife has been hurting for decades. He knows it's not his fault. But he wishes that somehow he could have saved her from all of it.

"Are you mad?" She asks him after a few moments of sitting in silence. It's a thought that's always been in the back of her mind. She has feared the possibility of his judgment. She has feared an onslaught of questions. Why were you so stupid? Why did you run there in the middle of winter? Why was your music so loud? What were you wearing? She feared her husband turning into a man she wouldn't recognize.

But instead, Henry wraps his arms around her, holding her close, and his words come out soft, "Not at you. Never at you."

He is angry—furious even. He's furious at the man who attacked her- the man who decided his wife was nothing more than an object to use for his own sick gratification. He's mad at himself for not realizing it sooner. He should've asked her. He should've been home. He should've made it so she never felt the need to hide this from him. He wonders if he's made her feel safe enough—loved enough. He wonders if he's failed her as a husband. He wonders if she has anyone to help her carry this—even if it wasn't him.

"Did you ever tell anyone?" He asks, breaking the silence. He doesn't want to press her for information. He can feel her tension and exhaustion. He's already asking her more than he should, but he has to know. He has to know that she told someone what had happened. He has to know she didn't bury this for twenty-nine years.

"No, I couldn't," she whispers. She could say more if she had the strength. She could explain how saying it out loud makes it real- and she never wanted it to be real. Saying now- here in their home, invites it back to taint the space she's fought so hard to create. But she can't explain any of that, and she doesn't have the energy to try.

Henry looks to the floor. She has done this alone. And he hates that. She is everything to him. She is the one person he wants to tell his every thought and feeling to. She is the one he runs to in the dark. She is the one he holds onto for dear life when his nightmares take over. She is the only one he's ever let in. And he feels so inadequate that he could not return the favor.

He pulls her closer, her head resting against his chest. He runs his fingers through her hair and kisses her temple. For the first time, he doesn't know what to say to her. So he holds her, hoping to soothe both her and himself.

"What do we do now," She asks him. She knows one thing, and it's that she has no idea what she's supposed to do. She is drowning in the pain all over again. She's exhausted from the memories, the fear, the trauma, the guilt. Her heart feels like a million pounds, and her chest aches. Her body feels like it's on fire. And now, she has no idea what's going to happen next.

"We'll figure it out together." He promises, vowing to make sure she never feels the need to handle anything alone again.