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A/N: Well, by popular demand, here is a POV piece about Olivia. Just a warning, this first chapter is sort of angsty. It deals with child abuse and neglect, so if you think that will upset you, please skip this chapter. Also, I will do my best to update this story every day, just like my others, but since I have finals starting next week, I may miss a few days and update every other day instead. Thanks for your interest in this story!
Part of me, a larger part than I'd like to admit, will always hate my daughter.
I know it's completely illogical. If one of us has the right to hate the other, it's most definitely her. She didn't choose to be my daughter, she didn't choose to be born, and yet I hate her for both reasons. Sometimes I can't even stand looking at her.
I know it's only because of her efforts that I'm still alive. She saved me from myself over and over again. On the other hand, if I had aborted her, maybe I wouldn't need saving. That's why I can't forgive her.
When I found out I was pregnant, on top of everything else, I wanted to die. I had just finished giving my statement to the police and I was on my way home when I realized that I was about a week late. In all the confusion and stress I hadn't thought about it, but the horrible thought that my rapist left me with more than fear finally crossed my mind.
I bought four pregnancy tests and took them all, just to be sure. Every one came up positive, and every one drove me deeper into depression.
I didn't eat for days. I couldn't believe that there was a baby, half me, half monster, growing in me. It was enough to make me sick to my stomach.
I wanted to get rid of it. Her. But I was too scared to go to a clinic. I didn't want to face the judgment, the stigma. I couldn't stand being branded yet again. Rape victim. Abortionist. One scarlet letter was enough, more than enough.
I tried to do it myself twice, but I wasn't successful. I don't know what I did wrong. It just didn't work. You'd think aborting your own baby, when you don't really give a damn about it, would be simple. You don't need to be a doctor to figure out what to do.
After I couldn't do it, I got drunker than I ever had before. I hear that infants are more likely to have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome if the mother drinks regularly while she is pregnant than if she gets falling-down drunk once or twice. And it's true, or at least it was for Olivia. She was perfectly healthy. Beautiful. I felt like she was mocking me.
I couldn't even name her. The doctors, the nurses…they all asked me what her name was. I hadn't even thought about it. Sick of the question, I finally glanced at my nurse's nametag. It said 'Olivia'. When I told her that was my daughter's name, she looked flattered, but she shouldn't have been. It had nothing to do with her.
So I took Olivia home with me, hardly able to look at her. I drowned myself in alcohol practically from day one of her life, and she never knew me as anything but a drunk.
I remember the first time I hit her. When she cried as a baby, which wasn't often, I would just leave for a few hours. But when she got older, and I started seeing her personality, I saw aspects of her that were not like me. That's when I lost it. She was smart, like me…she loved reading, like me…she could sing, like me…but she was so organized. I have never been like that, and I never will be. I knew it to be a trait from…him…and I couldn't stand it.
When she was five, I found her straightening the kitchen. I lost it, throwing things around, ignoring the terrified look in her eyes. When she bent to get some broken glass off the floor, I slapped her across the face and sent her flying into the ground. She cut her arm on the glass.
I didn't look at her for days after that, or any of the other times. I couldn't bear to see him in her or to face what I had become. I knew I was abusing her, and I knew I was being a horrible mother, but I justified my actions to myself by thinking that I didn't ask for any of it to happen.
Most of her childhood is a blur to me. I remember isolated instances when I hit her, when I left her outside for days, when I screamed at her until I lost my voice. I don't remember when she stopped crying, but she did eventually. She started closing away her emotions. She wouldn't let me see her cry, and I wouldn't let me see her smile. I made that impossible with my actions.
She grew into an intelligent, beautiful woman, and I knew I couldn't take any credit for it. I have to say that I have no idea how she remained so caring and empathetic. And I resent her for that too. I couldn't handle what happened to me, so I turned on her. She doesn't turn on anyone. She's a daily reminder of my rape, but also my weakness.
When she joined the Special Victims Unit, I almost felt like she was doing it to spite me. To show me that she could handle what drove me to the bottle. She said it was because she wanted to protect and fight for people like me. How does she find it in her to care about me? Her job is daily retribution against people like him, because of what he did to me. Where does she get this strength?
I know I was a terrible mother, but I still blame her for it. I won't take full responsibility for it all, even though there is no one to share the blame except for him. And he wasn't even there. Everything I did to her was my fault. I allowed myself to become a shadow of what I used to be, and even with that knowledge now, I can't stop myself from blaming her.
When I look at her, I am filled with resentment and anger but also, finally, thankfully, guilt. I know I don't deserve her.