Damaged

Fighter

"Hello, Olivia." The voice with the soft, lilting Southern twang forced the tiny brown-haired woman to look up from her seat and give a timid, strained smile.

"How are you today?" The older woman continued, tossing a piece of lint from her tailored, pinstripe suit and crossing her legs in front of her. She held a legal pad in her hands; a black ballpoint pen poised to take notes.

"Tired," Olivia sighed. She didn't want to be in therapy. Not that anyone ever did. She wasn't sleeping well – she hadn't been sleeping well since she had been subjected to the ruthless torture of her stalker. She had lived in terror every waking minute for two years before it had finally stopped.

"Are you still have the same dreams?" That was putting it mildly. There were many dreams. The details of her stalking had never eluded her dreams. A tall, built silhouette in black had dogged her dreams for years.

"Yes." Her voice was small, weak. She didn't like that. Two years of peace should have followed the arrest of the man who had made her life a living hell. But that peace never became a reality. She couldn't move on. Couldn't force herself to move on.

"Why don't you tell me about them?" Her gaze snapped to the woman sitting across from her. She hadn't told anyone about those dreams. Not the whole dream. There was still a lot she had kept from the police.

"They're dreams. They happen," she snapped, dropping her gaze back to the dark carpet. She wasn't here by choice. She had been forced to attend a few therapy sessions at the hospital after the first time she had taken half a bottle of Oxycodone and mixed them with the Jack Daniels she had found in the refrigerator. After leaving the hospital, her parents had forced her to continue her therapy sessions.

"Would you rather talk about your family?" The therapist continued to prod, trying to get something out of her patient.

"What's there to talk about? My mom and dad are getting married this summer. They finally sorted things out and they've decided they want us to be a family. Dad took a position at the high school – he's teaching history and mom...mom's still trying to be an author."

"And you feel that they have all moved on without you." Olivia narrowed her eyes at her counselor. She had trouble admitting that to herself and she didn't appreciate having a stranger voice the truth for her.

"They haven't moved on. They had nothing to move on from." She crossed her arms over her small body and shook her head at the older woman. She never thought of her family as moving on from anything. Edison hadn't stalked them. He hadn't made their lives a living nightmare. They didn't know what that paralyzing, every day fear was like.

"But still you feel as if you have been left out of their growth over the years."

"They never went through what I did and to wish that they never continued their lives while I have been wallowing in self-pity would be selfish." Olivia's temper flared at the assumption. That was the one thing she disliked most about therapy. She hated having someone think that they knew exactly what she was going through: exactly what she was thinking.

"Have you talked to your friends about your feelings?" The therapist decided to change topics. Olivia was becoming defensive and she knew that if they continued down that path, it would be yet another long, pointless session with nothing new to report.

"I'd rather not bombard them with my problems." Elizabeth, always the academic of the group, had thrown herself into graduate school the minute she was accepted and she rarely returned to Hampstead. Quinn spent all of her time with Huck, touring the country. She didn't care much for the small, quaint town that was Hampstead. Abby had been the one to shock everyone by staying in Hampstead, attending George Washington, and coaching the local high school swim team.

Yet Abby was the one that Olivia went to with her problems. The two girls understood one another better than Olivia ever thought they would. Abby had grown up with an abusive stepfather and had never fully gotten over the years of her own torture. It felt good to have someone to voice her fears to; someone who reciprocated and felt the same as her.

"Have you been getting out of the house with any more frequency?" When Olivia first started her sessions, she had admitted that she rarely left her home. She was too scared to. Even with her tormentor gone, she was afraid that something would happen to her. Her therapist had suggested that she gradually spend less and less time at home.

"I had coffee with Abby at the Café on Monday."

"That was two days ago. Anything else?"

"No."

"Olivia," the older woman's sigh racked her body, "I think you can do better than that."

"No, I can't."

"You need to push yourself."

"Everyone keeps telling me to push myself, but no one knows what I have been through." Olivia stood from her seat, snatching her bag from the floor and stomping out of the room. She glanced at her watch on the way out. 3:45. Fifteen minutes longer than she had ever stayed in a therapy session. She rubbed her eyes; if she wasn't careful, this therapy thing would grow on her and she would find herself staying the whole hour.

She exited the warm office to the sunny sidewalks and pulled her scarf a little tighter around her neck. The crisp, autumn wind was beginning to replace the summer heat of the month before. Her heels clicked against the cement as she walked toward the Café. This was almost becoming routine for her. She left her session early, got herself a cup of coffee and then loitered in front of the building until her father picked her up.

Ding.

The two high school boys behind the counter looked up at the sound of the bell over the door. She pulled her navy blazer tighter around her body when the tall blond began eyeing her. She walked with a purpose to the counter.

"What can I get you?" The boy grinned and flipped his hair. Olivia tried to suppress her grin. Was that supposed to impress her?

"A tall, two-pump vanilla, non-fat foam latte," she raddled off, watching as the boy nodded and told her what she owed. She pulled the cash from her purse, paying before stepping to the side to wait. She crossed her arms as she watched the kid stumble about in an attempt to fill her order.

"Olivia. Long time no see." She turned at the sound of a man's voice and narrowed her dark eyes.

"Hello, Jake." She wasn't his biggest fan and she didn't care if he knew that.

"How's your mom?"

"That's none of your business."

"Ouch. That's harsh."

"Jake, I really don't feel like doing this with you."

"What do you feel like doing?" She felt herself gag at the suggestive way he moved his eyebrows.

"Why don't you just show your workers how to make a latte so I can get out of here?" Jake's head turned to the counter where the blond kid was struggling to find the lid to fit Olivia's cup.

"Got it," the kid called in triumph, a goofy smile crossing his face. Olivia shook her head and grabbed her cup from the counter, turning and stalking out of the establishment.

"Whoa." Her heart fluttered at the familiar voice as she flung the door open, nearly hitting the man on the outside in the chest.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, stealing a glance at his face from under long lashes.

"No problem, Olivia." Her name sounded good, right rolling off his tongue.

"Well, sorry," she mumbled again, feeling her cheeks turn bright red as she turned toward the direction of her therapist's office.

"No big deal. You look good." He always said the right things at the wrong time.

"You too, Fitz."

"We should catch up some time."

"We should."

"I'll give you a call."

"Um...okay." She smiled, a smile that barely caused the use of her face muscles before heading back down the street, sipping her terrible latte. She came to a stop in front of the therapist's office and sighed. With one more glance back to where Fitz stood, she placed her hand on the door and flung it open.