there really is nothing left for her but the women and she knows it so it's okay to be scared and teary around them because they know what it feels like to have a hot and cold stream of ash and sin swirling through their veins. and maybe they don't know so much about streaming through their veins as they do their stomachs but she gets over it because their hurt is worse than hers and after all she finds little ways to make the blood seep into her shower drain anyway.
sometimes she dreams about the rotting faces of women who have died on her watch and off her watch and above and below and beyond and every time she'll wake and she'll be soaked and it'll take her a moment of embarrassment to realize that it's sweat and not piss and then she doesn't sleep anymore. and now that the dark circles below her eyes have consumed her whole face and her hair has become a massive pile of straw with cow and horse shit in it, she feels welcome among the dead bodies that line her dreams and her paperwork and her desk.
the bottom of a bottle never felt like a solution to her problems. she keeps thinking about a kid she probably won't have but that she might have and she figures that she might need a liver or seven to function while that kid plays soccer with it and her lungs. but then again she remembers getting drunk off her mother's watered down glasses when she was 14 and she remembers the way her body felt powerful and her lungs full of oxygen and the way that the piercing comments being thrown at her from atop the stairs just bounced right off and landed nowhere near her subconscious. she likes it and she doesn't like it and so she never gets drunk but every now and then she'll think about that teenage girl whose mother couldn't decide whether to love her or hate her or kill her like she shoulda done when she after she realized that that sonofabitchbastard's seed was crawling through her intestines and promising to haunt her for the rest of her life and have a little jack with her ice water and a smile of old punishing satisfaction will creep onto her face.
maybe she's looking to die or to kill or to feel the same pain her mother felt when that man held her down and made a life inside of her. she's not positive on either side of the spectrum because in her line of duty any of the answers could be true and false in one little spin of the wheel. sometimes it all just depends on her mood and her period and whether or not lizzie and dickie had a scuffle the night before and one or the other slammed somebody's fingers into a door and there was screaming and crying and punishments and elliot has a migraine and he didn't get any sleep. when that little girl was killed - it doesn't matter which little girl, even though it matters so much that her mind has become one big picture show of exposed little girls still holding onto their teddy bears with their scalps and their thighs bloody and their eyes squeezed shut, their mouths open wide in an expression of pain even after the lord decided to be merciful and take them home with him - and she saw the body, frozen in rigor mortis, she touched her hand and it was cold and for a moment she didn't know who was dead and who was alive but walking around with a block of rapist skin and blood and anger and cruelty and she was so shamed by her thoughts that she wanted to die and kill and feel an immense amount of pain at the same time.
she's never thrown up and she likes it that way, though sometimes she wishes she could just toss the memories into the toilet and flush her guilt away to live with the shit and piss of the world where it belongs. after that she would just wipe her mouth and mind clean and then have a good nights sleep and maybe in the morning she could walk into the station house and not feel a tiny chunk of her sanity roll away at the sight of another broken women who had to bring her three small children in with her to report her rape because she couldn't find a babysitter.
every night she cries and plays with her gun and that's just the way it is.