I Am the Evidence
The sound of the city blended into the background as Mariska Hargitay, a figure of resilience, stepped out of her car. She’d been living this dual reality for a while now—the woman on the screen, Olivia Benson, who navigated the dark waters of humanity, and the woman behind it, grappling with the weight of her own scars. The sun hung low on the New York skyline, casting long shadows, evoking memories that threaded their way through her thoughts like a stray, forgotten chord in a long-lost symphony.
Tonight, she was here for a screening of her latest film, "I in the Evidence," but this wasn’t just another movie night. It was an unveiling—a chance to shed light on the issues she held dear. Patients, survivors, and friends stood outside the theater, their faces illuminated by neon lights, but each bore their shadows. They smiled and waved, but beneath the surface, she could see the turbulence that so many carried silently.
As she walked through the crowd, Mariska felt the eyes of the world on her. They adored her for the valor Olivia had shown on-screen, yet they wanted more than a character—a savior who could shield them from the bleak truth of violence that infiltrated lives. "You’re our hero," they would say, never seeing the woman behind the badge, who wrestled with her own demons.
Inside the theater, the atmosphere thickened. As the film began, it flickered through tales of trauma that mirrored her own. Each scene felt like unearthing wounds she thought were long healed. Rape, torture, and the intricate web of consent—these weren’t just scripted horrors; they were echoes of real stories that people thought should be ignored. Mariska clasped her hands tightly, feeling the discomfort radiate through the sullied air, through the collective gasp of a thousand stunned breaths hitting her like arrows.
She could feel the sharp exchange of stares—the raw pain reflected through the audience’s eyes. They didn’t merely watch. They lived. This was their existence, played out on a canvas too grim to fully describe. And just like that, she was no longer Mariska dear to them but Olivia, the sergeant and the survivor both.
The film explored how the world seemed to project onto her the notion that she was their savior, yet in her reality, her truth felt infinitely more twisted. Each woman whom life had dealt the heaviest of hands felt their stories overlooked, reduced to mere victimhood. “You’re a voice for us!” they proclaimed, but she knew all too well of the faces left behind in silence.
As the screening concluded, the audience erupted into applause, but Mariska remained seated. Everything rushed back—the hours spent in therapy, the tears shed over phone calls that echoed of hopelessness, and the endless march of healing that felt more akin to a wrestling match than a straight path. The screen faded to black, but her memories surged like waves in a storm.
After the applause faded, a Q&A session began. Mariska took a deep breath, standing on that stage under blazing lights that felt like an interrogation rather than a spotlight. “I feel like I’m just here to answer the questions,” she began, looking out into the sea of faces, absorbing their energy. “It’s funny how the world can both celebrate and vilify a person at the same time.”
One woman raised her hand—a trembling soul barely managing to contain her emotions. “But Olivia, you bring us hope! How can you say you’re not important?”
Mariska closed her eyes for a moment, giving herself the space to collect thoughts cascading through her mind. “Hope? It is like a double-edged sword. Sometimes it shines so bright you can’t see your way through. Other times, it’s the heavy weight that drags you down.” Silence fell like a thick fog, absorbing the sound of every breath. “I am not your savior, but I carry the evidence of how far we’ve come and how far we still need to go.”
“She’s living our truth,” echoed a voice from the back. “But when does it end?”
“Therein lies the tale,” s

You don't dictate what I'm worth, it's true,


Not when I control the air you breathe,


Don't like me? Then find a new way to breathe.


Especially when it's all about blue balls.


You think you own the streets and skies,


So take your walls and your cold disdain,


I'm breathing free, I'll break the chain.


I don't care if you count sheep or wolves,


Clearly, you missed kindergarten rules,


'Cause sharing's nicer, that's the truth,


But like burlesque, I'm calling air rights—f*** you.


Chapter 5 - Blue Walls Can Kiss My Ass