Abused and Misused

Chapter 4

Olivia Benson POV

"Put me down!" I hear a voice shriek.

I run to where it came from, and see a buff boy in a football uniform holding Emma above his head.

"Stop!" I scream.

Emma glances at me, grabbing the jocks jackets as he throws her. The fabric rips, sending her into a concrete wall.

Emma's back smacks into the wall with a loud 'crack', and she falls to the ground.

Her head takes the most of it, and a large gash had formed in her arm from a nearby locker.

I force all emotion to the side, I need to focus on whether or not she's okay right now.

I press two fingers to her neck, checking her pulse. It was weak.

I sigh. "Emma? Baby, stay with me."

She moans quietly. Whether in pain, or in reply, or even both.

"An ambulance is on the way." I whisper, stroking her hair.

She shuts her eyes, almost peacefully. I doubt she had much peace with the situations she comes from.

Her eyes flutter open, and she looks at me, before drifting into a deep sleep.

"Hang in there, Emma." I say under my breathe.

I examine her arm, taking my jacket off. I make a tourniquet out of it. She seemed to be losing a lot of blood, and the gash was fairly deep.

Sirens. That's all I could register outside. I see the EMTs wheel in a gurney, lifting her onto it.

I stood up, walking quickly to keep up with them.

They load her into the ambulance and quickly begin working.

"Concussion. BP 76/57." A man states. "She's dangerous. What happened here?" He asks me.

I stammer for a moment, finding my words. "Classmate threw her into a concrete wall."

"He must've been on something then, cause she seems like she just fell from a 3 story building." He says under his breath.

"Morphine." He orders. A woman hands him a vial and a syringe, which he injects into Emma. "She'll need it."

I sit quietly as we approach the hospital. I felt strangely close to the girl, and couldn't shake the feeling that this was my fault. Not that it matters. All that matters is that she makes it out of this disaster alive.

I wait patiently for them to move her out of the ambulance. I grab my black purse and follow them wordlessly.

I sit in the room they said they were going to bring her into.

1 hour...2 hours...2 1/2...and she finally came in.

She doesn't even look like herself.

I stand up quickly, forcing back tears. I couldn't cry today, I'd already been weak too long.

The nurses leave, and Emma is still asleep.

I lean on the bed, resting my head on one hand, and touching her hair with the other.

I sigh sadly and run my finger over her bandage and examine the bruises on her face. He went too far.

I glance at her arm, which was wrapped in a thick bandage, and then her other arm. Then I saw them.

Small marks running up her arm, to her elbow. Hundreds. Some pink, red, white. New and old.

I bite my lip and shut my eyes. She'd been cutting, a lot. The oldest scar looked about 3 years old. She was 15, so she probably started cutting around 11 or 12.

What I want to know is what made her start.