The angel and chimera
Title: My chimera
Author:
xunforgivenx
Theme/Set: SVU: 20 Manipulated
Rating: R - violence, suicide, language
Claim + additional character(s): Olivia Benson
Warning: You know, I am not sure where these moods come from -I think it started last night, but I am not sure why it didn't END last night. The story is dark, angry, and could be upsetting - I am having a rash of these kind of stories, and in all honesty I am actually a pretty upbeat kinda gal.
Summary: She was laid out like an Abbott Handerson Thayer painting ( which, if you would like, you can see here.)
What you might not know is that there is an art to dying. Death is never pretty, the only thing you can hope to do is make certain arrangements in order for you to make it look a little better.
For instance, slitting your wrists in a bath tub, you run the water in order to make sure that the wound does not start to clot. If you aren’t quite sure about this whole death thing you can hope that the water leaks into the room below you - and that someone gives a shit.
You could overdose but then you would have to make sure that you take the right amount, so it truly finished the job and didn’t just leave you with kidney failure and a legitimate reason to want yourself dead.
Oh, and a general rule of thumb - if you do plan on dying, feed your pets.
After a few years you get use to these scenes - well, saying “get use to” sounds kind of harsh. Here, let me put it to you another way, now I don’t throw up when I see someone’s brains splattered all over a bedroom wall.
That’s what we have here - a suicide, or that’s what it looks like. She’s spread out over the bed, her legs hanging over the edge as if she had been sitting when she pulled the trigger. Many people don’t take into account of the force of the shot when they picture themselves dead. When you put the gun to your temple and pull the trigger you don’t fall back on to the bed like they show in Romeo and Juliet. You slump over to the side in the direction which the shot originated.
Dark hair, what’s left of it spread around her head, matted with the blood from the wound in the back of her head. It had been at least a few hours since she had pulled the trigger; the timing is off because the air conditioner has been running on full blast to combat this New York heat wave.
I know the girl on the bed; I know what’s left of her. We both know the girl on the bed, my partner and I. She was a victim, one of the many that are paraded through the squad room, each story more horrific then the last one. Faces drawn, eyes red and puffy, face stained with tears as they sit down across from us and confess. Embarrassing stories, filled with betrayal and hurt. Each one painful, disgusted, hurt, and confused, each one looking for justice, looking for us to help.
I never thought she was strong enough to survive this, the trial - especially when her abusive, manipulative boyfriend was released on bail with a measly restraining order to protect her from him.
The room is dark, dark blue with white accents - there are angels everywhere, white, baby faced angels smiling from every corner. Angels, saints, Mary, it’s the Catholic Church without the angry God, and the confessional. It wasn’t that she was particularly religious - that she was devout; maybe she was just looking for help somewhere, just like she was looking for help when she came in to see us. I don’t suppose a Catholic would end their lives like she did. Maybe she was a sacrifice, to who I don’t know - but she’s laid out like an offering. In all white, her face relatively pale and perfect, if you look just at her face - and ignore the large chuck of her brain spread out over the bed sheets. There are even candles, brilliant, white candles their flames flickering and waving in the dim room. Taunting, teasing, and spreading a warm glow of a crypt over the room, over her skin giving a sweet, gentle light to the garish, violent seen spread out before me.
If half of her head wasn’t missing the scene would be perfect and serene. If she was whole this would be perfect, if she was whole this would have never happened. Twenty-three and already spread out like an angle in waiting.
That’s it, she’s a painting - she’s a wingless Abbott Handerson Thayer painting. Hand on her breast - fingers wrapped around a semi-automatic 9mm. Body relaxed eyes downcast and cradled by sheets instead of wings. Surrounded by peering eyes of the saints instead of white fluffy clouds, it is as if an old classic was updated to reflect the day and the time. It’s the hell and reality of today instead of the pleasant illusion that is provided by the past.
Someone plays the answering machine, plays the twenty-four messages that have had the little red light blinking for hours. The calm, tranquil room is filled with nothing but vile curses, angry words hissed through clenched teeth of a man my partner and I know, very well.
“You rotten, vile bitch, you did this to me! You are worthless to me, you stupid whore. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. KILL YOURSELF. When all this is over I am going to hunt you down - I am going to find you and really show you what it means to be in pain. I did everything for you! Everything! And this is how you repay me? You won’t be able to survive without me you silly cunt. The only way you could ever fix this is if you just blew your head off - your worthless head, you whore. . . .”
The words kept coming, and coming - and that was just the first three messages.
How many times did she listen to these messages? Nothing but curses, nothing but promises of misery from the only man she loved - who she thought loved her. It was also a violation of a restraining order.
He doesn’t look surprised when we show up, he does try to bolt for the window but he’s easily stopped by the imposing frame of my partner. He’s on his knees, and I have my gun drawn - aimed at his head and I wonder how quick and easy it would be to pull the trigger.
Worthless piece of shit, everyone in this room would cover my back - everyone in this room would tell the investigators how he threatened me with a knife, that I was defending myself. So I do it. I pull the trigger with a smile on my face, the gun vibrating slightly in my hands at the recoil. It’s done, he’s slumped back on the floor, eyes wide and mouth opened in shock as the pool starts to grow around his head and stain the white linoleum floor, crimson.
Dead, gone, and the look of horror that twists his face is the icing on the cake. He doesn’t deserve to look beautiful and spread out like she was. He deserves to die on the floor, a brutal, disgusting end. This suits him.
All of a sudden Elliot grabs my shoulder and my chimera disappears and I am left, alone hands shaking and staring at the empty floor.
Author:
xunforgivenx
Theme/Set: SVU: 20 Manipulated
Rating: R - violence, suicide, language
Claim + additional character(s): Olivia Benson
Warning: You know, I am not sure where these moods come from -I think it started last night, but I am not sure why it didn't END last night. The story is dark, angry, and could be upsetting - I am having a rash of these kind of stories, and in all honesty I am actually a pretty upbeat kinda gal.
Summary: She was laid out like an Abbott Handerson Thayer painting ( which, if you would like, you can see here.)
What you might not know is that there is an art to dying. Death is never pretty, the only thing you can hope to do is make certain arrangements in order for you to make it look a little better.
For instance, slitting your wrists in a bath tub, you run the water in order to make sure that the wound does not start to clot. If you aren’t quite sure about this whole death thing you can hope that the water leaks into the room below you - and that someone gives a shit.
You could overdose but then you would have to make sure that you take the right amount, so it truly finished the job and didn’t just leave you with kidney failure and a legitimate reason to want yourself dead.
Oh, and a general rule of thumb - if you do plan on dying, feed your pets.
After a few years you get use to these scenes - well, saying “get use to” sounds kind of harsh. Here, let me put it to you another way, now I don’t throw up when I see someone’s brains splattered all over a bedroom wall.
That’s what we have here - a suicide, or that’s what it looks like. She’s spread out over the bed, her legs hanging over the edge as if she had been sitting when she pulled the trigger. Many people don’t take into account of the force of the shot when they picture themselves dead. When you put the gun to your temple and pull the trigger you don’t fall back on to the bed like they show in Romeo and Juliet. You slump over to the side in the direction which the shot originated.
Dark hair, what’s left of it spread around her head, matted with the blood from the wound in the back of her head. It had been at least a few hours since she had pulled the trigger; the timing is off because the air conditioner has been running on full blast to combat this New York heat wave.
I know the girl on the bed; I know what’s left of her. We both know the girl on the bed, my partner and I. She was a victim, one of the many that are paraded through the squad room, each story more horrific then the last one. Faces drawn, eyes red and puffy, face stained with tears as they sit down across from us and confess. Embarrassing stories, filled with betrayal and hurt. Each one painful, disgusted, hurt, and confused, each one looking for justice, looking for us to help.
I never thought she was strong enough to survive this, the trial - especially when her abusive, manipulative boyfriend was released on bail with a measly restraining order to protect her from him.
The room is dark, dark blue with white accents - there are angels everywhere, white, baby faced angels smiling from every corner. Angels, saints, Mary, it’s the Catholic Church without the angry God, and the confessional. It wasn’t that she was particularly religious - that she was devout; maybe she was just looking for help somewhere, just like she was looking for help when she came in to see us. I don’t suppose a Catholic would end their lives like she did. Maybe she was a sacrifice, to who I don’t know - but she’s laid out like an offering. In all white, her face relatively pale and perfect, if you look just at her face - and ignore the large chuck of her brain spread out over the bed sheets. There are even candles, brilliant, white candles their flames flickering and waving in the dim room. Taunting, teasing, and spreading a warm glow of a crypt over the room, over her skin giving a sweet, gentle light to the garish, violent seen spread out before me.
If half of her head wasn’t missing the scene would be perfect and serene. If she was whole this would be perfect, if she was whole this would have never happened. Twenty-three and already spread out like an angle in waiting.
That’s it, she’s a painting - she’s a wingless Abbott Handerson Thayer painting. Hand on her breast - fingers wrapped around a semi-automatic 9mm. Body relaxed eyes downcast and cradled by sheets instead of wings. Surrounded by peering eyes of the saints instead of white fluffy clouds, it is as if an old classic was updated to reflect the day and the time. It’s the hell and reality of today instead of the pleasant illusion that is provided by the past.
Someone plays the answering machine, plays the twenty-four messages that have had the little red light blinking for hours. The calm, tranquil room is filled with nothing but vile curses, angry words hissed through clenched teeth of a man my partner and I know, very well.
“You rotten, vile bitch, you did this to me! You are worthless to me, you stupid whore. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. KILL YOURSELF. When all this is over I am going to hunt you down - I am going to find you and really show you what it means to be in pain. I did everything for you! Everything! And this is how you repay me? You won’t be able to survive without me you silly cunt. The only way you could ever fix this is if you just blew your head off - your worthless head, you whore. . . .”
The words kept coming, and coming - and that was just the first three messages.
How many times did she listen to these messages? Nothing but curses, nothing but promises of misery from the only man she loved - who she thought loved her. It was also a violation of a restraining order.
He doesn’t look surprised when we show up, he does try to bolt for the window but he’s easily stopped by the imposing frame of my partner. He’s on his knees, and I have my gun drawn - aimed at his head and I wonder how quick and easy it would be to pull the trigger.
Worthless piece of shit, everyone in this room would cover my back - everyone in this room would tell the investigators how he threatened me with a knife, that I was defending myself. So I do it. I pull the trigger with a smile on my face, the gun vibrating slightly in my hands at the recoil. It’s done, he’s slumped back on the floor, eyes wide and mouth opened in shock as the pool starts to grow around his head and stain the white linoleum floor, crimson.
Dead, gone, and the look of horror that twists his face is the icing on the cake. He doesn’t deserve to look beautiful and spread out like she was. He deserves to die on the floor, a brutal, disgusting end. This suits him.
All of a sudden Elliot grabs my shoulder and my chimera disappears and I am left, alone hands shaking and staring at the empty floor.