When I get to the bottom
I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride
And I get to the bottom and I see you again
Well do you, don't you want me to make you
Tell me, tell me, tell me...

The lights came fast on all sides. Olivia knew she was falling but couldn't catch herself on anything. The rush of air hit her first, buffetting her back.

She closed her eyes.

The house looked like a fairy tale cottage. There were Technicolor flowers outside and the soft strains of a familiar song coming through the window. As she approached the front door the curtains began to blow in the breeze.

The door handle was streaked with crimson fingerprints.

I used to live in New York City...Everything there was dark and dirty...

Olivia gently pushed on the door and went in. Fear sent every nerve skyrocketing. It all seemed so familiar...the music, the bumping overhead fan.

The bodies were where they always were. Blood was spattered everywhere. The woman was bunched against the couch, arms reaching out in supplication. Every step made the blood squish on the saturated carpet. Olivia's nose filled with its coppery scent. She stumbled over the man, sprawled next to a wing chair. There were other bodies on the lawn.

She opened her eyes

Olivia tasted his blood, that sharp nip to his tongue that didn't make him pull away or cry out. Their breaths came in short bursts. Explosions. And she was straining because soon Elliot would be where she wanted him to be - where she needed him to be.

"She's pregnant," he muttered against her wet skin. At first, Olivia didn't hear him over the sound of the shower. "Liv, she's pregnant."

The water turned cold against her skin. Elliot was suddenly too naked and too pale in the candlelight. He turned off the shower and handed her a towel, his head hanging in shame.

They sat on the side of the tub. The sound of the TV filtered from the living room, chattering about civilian casualities and parole hearings. Everything that filled their lives was on that TV, but they were in the womb of the shower, protected by the clouds of steam and the fear.

"What did we become?" she asked, looking at her shriveled hands.

Olivia closed her eyes.

There's a place in France where pieces of a plane still litter the forest floor. Pieces of seats, carpet fabric and occasionally bone is uncovered by the winter winds. In the forest, 1977 is still alive. The people that died in 1977 are still alive.

When the plane scraped the treetops, Olivia was eleven. She couldn't fathom the fragility of life. All the headlines blamed a cargo door.

She was reading an article about it for her current events report when the front door opened and shut. Mom was home. The house was clean and the dishes were done and there was nothing to get beaten about.

The sounds of Sabrina's heels clicked up the stairs. A figure darkened her bedroom door. With it came the scent of cgarettes and alcohol. "Why aren't you in bed?" Sabrina slurred, reeling slightly.

"I'm finishing up my homework. I'll be done soon, I promise," Olivia said, managing a weak smile. She hated her mother. Hated the smells and the fists. Sabrina tottered over to the desk and read the headline through bloodshot eyes.

"Cargo door. Seems more like wrong place, wrong time. Poor bastards," she mumbled, stumbling out of the room.

Olivia shivered, sqeezing her eyes shut tight. There was always the wrong place and the wrong time. The nights her mother would make love and her moans and screams could be heard throughout the house. The time she slapped three of Olivia's baby teeth right out of her mouth. Wrong time. The plane screamed to a stop, ending whatever thoughts the passengers were having.

Olivia opened her eyes.

"Name's Stabler."

"Olivia Benson."

She studied him for a moment. Tall, muscles, square jaw. But it was those damn blue eyes that hit her in the gut. When their eyes met, a little bolt of electricity passed between them. That had never happened to her before. It scared her a little, because he flinched, too.

Never mind the wedding ring. For years she listened to his stories about kids and Kathy. Olivia would go to their birthday parties and Christmas dinners. Elliot talked to her differently than he did Kathy. She noticed this more in the later days of their partnership.

Once upon a time, they'd been happy. Once upon a time, Olivia would have killed for him. Now he was fading away...

Huang gave her little orange pills that were supposed to take the edge off. She wouldn't take them, knowing that addictive behavior ran in the family. They sat on her dresser, taunting in the light that streamed in through her windows.

You felt it, too, she wanted to scream at him.

The house looked like a fairy tale cottage. They lived there and she tended the flowers and Elliot tended the barbeque on weekends. The floor was so saturated with blood it squelched beneath her bare toes...

Olivia closed her eyes, feeling its sticky warmness...

"Liv," he whispered, shaking her arm. "You've been asleep for twelve hours."

Olivia yawned and her back cracked painfully. She was in the crib, huddled on one of the bunks. Elliot was crouched beside her. "So the dead come alive," he said, voice cracking.

He was unshaven and melancholy. "Cragen's sending us out to Alpine to stake out that electronics store."

"OK," Olivia said, wiping the sleep from her eyes. She watched Elliot leave the dark room, like a blackbird flying in the night.

She stepped out of the bunk and stared into the darkness.

She tasted blood.