You sink into my clothes, and this invasion makes me feel worthless, hopeless, sick.

I exit the doors of St. Leo's, forcing myself to walk slowly and calmly down the stairs to the sidewalk below. I talk a few steps away from the church, and peer over my shoulder warily. Seeing no one, I slip into Obfuscate and run blindly from the buildings. As I run, words repeat in my head like a mantra.
I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't.

Almost subconsciously, I allow my feet to take me in the opposite direction of my home, knowing Alex would be there. Knowing there was no way I would ever allow him to see me like this. Knowing I can't allow him to find out what I just let happen to me.
I can't. I can't.

I head to a residential area, the smell of Kine coming from each house turns my stomach, despite my own lack of blood. Pinpointing an empty house, I make my way to the side of the building, pry the plywood from a window, and haphazardly climb in. My shirt snags on a splinter of wood and I gasp, falling to the carpet and staring at the small tear, horrified. Peeling the shirt from my torso, I fold it into a neat square. I unzip my boots and take them off. Standing and removing the skirt and modest undergarments, I fold them as well and hold the clothing to my bare chest.

They smell of blood.
They smell of Tommy's hands.

The room feels devoid of air, and despite my lack of need for it, I feel like I'm suffocating. My chest heaves, and the whistling whine of breath coming from my lips hurts my ears. My skin is clean, thanks to Tommy's thorough bathing, but I smell it. I smell him on me and hear his voice and feel his...

Thick, gelatinous fluid splatters onto the floor and my bare feet. The speckles of red stand out starkly on my white flesh. My stomach churns again and I fight to keep down the remaining vitae in my system. I wipe my mouth and stumble further into the house, leaving bloody footprints in my wake.
I can't. I can't. I can't.

There's cold tile under my feet. I reach out, placing the neat pile of clothing on a closed toilet seat. I avert my gaze to the floor in the dark room, feeling around until I touch the smooth expanse of the mirror. My fist pulls back and smashes into the glass. Shards of the reflective surface embed in my knuckles, and I welcome the pain. Shaking my injured hand, sprinkling blood on the porcelain furnishings, I climb over the lip of the tub and slide the glass door shut.

My desperate panting echoes off the tile, and I force myself to stand despite the deep set ache below my waist.
"I needed that. I needed what he did to me. Because I'm sick, and dirty, and bad. Because I'm a monster."
I let out a keening wail, and spin the hot water tap.
"I'm a monster and I deserve to be hurt."
The spray of the water hits my naked body, warm at first, but quickly growing to a scalding shower. Steam fills the small, wet closet. My already abused flesh begins stinging, and then burning as the unrelenting spray falls over me. I press my hands to the wall, holding myself up, making myself endure the agony.
Just like when Tommy pushed the hooks into my...
The bottom of the tub swirls with red, as I once more lose the battle with my churning gut. Finally succumbing to weakness and blood loss, I slide down to the tub floor. Using my foot to press the drain stopper in, I watch my skin turn crimson as the level of scalding water grows higher. I try to ignore the tears that trail down my cheek, telling myself it's from the shower. When the tub fills to the brim, I turn the water off and soak in my pain.

I clench my eyes shut against the tears, but the effort does nothing to halt the memories. The barbed whip yanking at my flesh. The lights glittering off of a heavy ring as it flies towards my face. The empty wine bottle. Tommy, standing before the bloody altar, his face and clothes stippled with blood as he unbuttons the tented front of his trousers.
"Please don't hurt me anymore."
My agonized begging is answered by nothing but more pain. I sink down until only my face is above the rapidly cooling water, refusing to move. Refusing to leave.

More noticeable than the ache in my body, is the ache in my chest.
I want Alex, and his comfort.
I want Tybalt, and his vengeance.
But what sickens me. What repulses me, is that more than anything, I want Tommy and his pain.

"I love you, Madelyn, and will not let you be left out alone."

His words echoing in my mind, I plunge my head under the water and hold it there.

I'm gonna get defiled. In your world I'm naive like a lost child.

It's raining buckets as I wander the streets of Baltimore. Metal blares from the headphones tucked under my hood as I make my way down the street to Tommy's church. I've been avoiding the priest lately, avoiding the confrontation involving dead Kindred that once more walk the streets. Rubbing at my forehead, I stare up towards the towering cathedral. The doors are propped open, despite the dark torrent of rain. I inhale deeply, tasting Tommy's scent coming through the archway. With only the slightest hesitation, I walk through the doors.

At the front of the room, a dark haired, dark garbed priest stands at a bare altar. He kneels, the sounds of his joints cracking reaching my ears as I approach. Tommy crosses his arms and bows his head, seemingly oblivious of my presence. I stare at his back, my brow creased as I pull my hood down and tuck my iPod in my pocket. Nudging Tommy gently with my foot, I speak softly, as to not disturb the silence of the church. "All that praying you do...don't think it's making a difference."
Tommy responds with a voice not above a whisper. "Not praying, just talking to myself."
I raise my eyebrow, unseen by him. "Is there actually a difference?"
"Not for me." Tommy states with a sense of finality.
Some of my trepidation escapes me as I reply, staring down at him. "Obviously. What were you praying to yourself about?" 
Still on his knees, weight leaning on his forearms across the altar, Tommy merely replies: "Purpose."

"Heh. That." I lower myself to the ground at his level, sitting adjacent to him. "I saw an old friend of ours, Tommy." Anxiety creeps into my voice, as I fail to retain a casual tone.
"You have friends?" His response has little humor, and the words draw a grimace from me.
My mouth opens to reply, but I quickly close it again. I pause, shoulders sagging, ashamed of the hurt that I can't hide from my tone. "...yes." I fight to sound more assertive as I continue. "This...friend. It's weird, because you said that you killed him."
Tommy's body stiffens visibly, and he begins to stand with a shuddering movement of his legs. "A friend of yours that I killed?"
I watch him from my spot on the floor. "Pyotr."
Tommy freezes mid-rise, then laughs loudly from deep within his stomach.
"Oh! You almost had me worried. Of course you've seen Pyotr, Madelyn." He turns to look down at me, adding, "You poor thing."
I don't drop my gaze, despite his condescension. "No. No, Tommy." I try to entice bravery into my own tone. "Something is...no. I think...I think you're confused about a lot of things."
Concern crosses Tommy's face like a wave, beginning at one eye and passing over the rest of his countenance. "It's okay, my dear. It's all alright. I believe you. You're alright." His eyes water lightly in the light of the church.
My reply is automatic, tinged with anger. "Stop it." I climb to my feet, placing my hands in my pockets and shaking my head. "I don't need..." I pause, steeling myself. "I don't need you to believe me."
He reaches his hand out for mine, replying, "What matters, my dear, is that you believe you. That you are willing to believe yourself."
My own hands clench into fists in my pockets. After a moment, I extract my right hand and firmly take Tommy's. "You're insane."
He smiles knowingly and places his other hand over mine. "No, Madelyn. You're worth it."
"Stop," I repeat. "I'm trying to put my life together, and I can't..." I trail off, looking down at my hand between his. "Everything you say to me is a fucking lie, isn't it?"
He seems unconcerned by my accusation, replying, "I would never lie to you, Madelyn." His hazel eyes stare deeply into my green ones, preventing me from looking away.
"You have and you did and you are." I pull my hand back. "I just want to know why."
Tommy's brow furrows and he steps back. "Madelyn, I'm trying to help you. I know it's hard for you to distinguish fact from fiction, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm trying to make it easier. You just need to trust me."
My voice rises, growing manic. "No, you're not! I'm the one trying here, and all you seem to be doing is convincing me that I can't do it. Is that..is that what you need to do to keep your head on straight?"

Tommy is silent for a moment, then his visage turns from a look of concern to that of anger.
"I gave you years from my life to bring you back, Madelyn. I gave you that body and worked endlessly to provide for you. This is what you do? How you repay me?"
My lip lifts in a bitter snarl."Provide...what? You've been telling me I'm dead for over a decade, and and...You don't care about me, I'm just a fucking pawn for you! I'm not. I don't owe you anything."
"You were dead, and now look at you! Traipsing around in your new body, and now you're too grand for Father Maletoni!" He raises his hand and snarls back at me.
My own hands shake as I shout in his face, "I'm not dead!"
"Not anymore you're not you ungrateful little shit!" I don't dodge or move as his hand swings down, striking me against the cheek. I know he can see the fear clear in my eyes as he grips my chin, pulling my attention to him. "I didn't want to have to do this Madelyn, but you're losing control. How is this body I gave you going to work if you disobey me?"
"Disobey you? You're not.." I clench my jaw, pulling my face from his grasp. "You don't control me."
"I don't control you, I'm just protecting you. You need to understand that I might not be able to bring you back again." His concern once again changes to avarice and disgust. "Your inability to see that far repulses me, Madelyn."
"Your denial of your own fucking insanity makes me..." I rub at my bruised cheek with a shaking hand. "I'm putting my life together, and none of it is thanks to you. None of it! Tybalt says.." I trail off, covering my face with my palms.

I feel the impact of his fist against my hands, dropping them to my side as I flinch. All facade of courage falls from my expression as he strikes me again. "Don't tell me what Tybalt said." Another strike. "Where was he when you were wandering around in Hell?" Another strike. "Where the hell was he? Fucking some dumb whore!"
I cower from his onslaught, backing up until I hit the altar. "He didn't..." I curl into myself, whimpering. "...please, Tommy."
"No, this is what you need. This is what you understand when you get like this, isn't it?" He kicks me, then snarls at the scuff on his shoe created by the act. "Look at me."
I comply, my eyes darting back and forth frenetically. "N..no." I wrap my arms around myself. "I need to go. This isn't...I can't."
He reaches down, grabbing a fistful of my hair. "You will listen."
I gasp, reaching up to grab his hand. "I can't, please. Please."
"I suppose this is my fault. I knew you weren't ready, weren't strong enough. I put you in that body before you were ready to transition. I can correct this, though. I will teach you control." He attempts to pull me up with a strength obviously supernal in nature.
I stiffen in his grasp. "I am strong." My eyes drop to Tommy's feet. "I'm not gonna let you treat me like this." I know the tremble in my stance and voice belies a different truth.
He holds my hair, smacking my face again with the back of his other hand. "You made me do this. No complaining about it, now. Take it and be better for it." He succeeds in pulling me to my feet.

My hands drop back down to my sides, and I reply in barely a whisper. "...yes, sir." I stare at my feet, standing before him like a wounded animal.
He snarls through his nose again, then states, "Dogs aren't permitted to be about with the door open. Go close it." He turns and opens the drawer in the altar.
I stare at him, as if trying to muster some sort of defiance. Dropping my eyes once more, I turn to do as he orders. There's a cracking sound a few inches behind my head, and I freeze in place, only daring to look over my shoulder. "Dogs aren't permitted to don clothing. Fix that, first." There's another snap as Tommy exercises his arm with a four-headed whip. Sickly jagged hooks dot the tips and the length of each head. "You are going to learn, Madelyn. I will show you how I learned to forgo the blood. You will learn to see clearly."
My stance chances, as I fight the urge to flee. "No," I repeat, unconvincingly.
"Learn!" He swipes the whip across my chest. The thick fabric of my hoodie takes some of the blow, but I yelp in pain, nevertheless. My feet move of their own accord, drawing me near the door with less speed than I'm capable. I stop at the open doorway, back turned to Tommy. With just a moments hesitation, I close the doors, cowering against them, refusing to look at the priest. The whip lashes at the air again. "I told you to do something. Comply or be educated." I shake my head back and forth, holding my hands to my injured chest. I hear him raise the whip, as he brings it down with all of his strength. It strikes the already scarred flesh of my back, and even the fabric of my sweatshirt can't cushion the blow. My trembling legs fail me, as I fall to my knees. His voice is deafening as he commands me. "I will lay your skin to tatters and flay you if it is necessary. I will wear your fucking face after I rip it off your skull. Comply!"
Bowing so that my hair obscures my face, my hands rise to pull the zipper of my hoodie down. My voice is quiet, frightened and childlike. "This isn't real."

Tommy approaches me, eyes bearing down and whip in hand. He grasps my hair again with his left hand and holds me still. "This is your life and you're living it, here, with me. I will make you better."
On my knees, compliant at his feet, I roll my eyes upwards to his face. I know my expression shows terror, familiarity, and acceptance, in turn. Sweatshirt unzipped, I let the fabric slide off my shoulders, exposing pale, scarred flesh. "Yes, Tommy."
Tommy palms one of the hooks from the whip and lays it upon my left shoulder. "The rest of it, now."
Still keeping my eyes on his face, I reach around to unzip the back of my skirt. "I have to..." I swallow, needlessly. "May I stand?"
He digs the hook into my shoulder, attaching it like a marionette string. "Yes, good girl." I whimper, rising from my kneel. I clench the fabric of my skirt to my waist, before letting it fall around my feet, gracelessly. Tommy tugs on the whip lightly to lead me along. "Do I need to place another hook in you, or will you come when I pull your leash?"
"I'll follow." I whisper. I move with him, glancing down at myself shamefully. My stance and posture are child-like, a stark difference to Tommy's. His shoulders are high and squared as he walks me back up to the empty altar.
He points to the barren altar that matches me in my bareness and commands, "Over."
I pull back a fraction, expression contorting with my fear. My words come out as a mewling beg. "Don't make me. Please."
Tommy takes me by the back of the head and forces me over the altar, pulling the whip enough to rip the hook from it's tether. I yelp in pain, but don't struggle against him. Bent over the altar, blood trickling down my shoulder, I sputter out an apology. "Louder, Madelyn." From behind me I can hear him suckling the meat and blood from the small hook. His hand no longer holds my head, but I feel the heat from his presence behind me.
I raise my head slightly, palms flat on the wood. "I'm sorry Tom.." My voice catches, "..sir."
His hand lightly places itself down on the skin between my anus and womanhood. "I never wanted to do this, but you rebel against me at every turn. Take a deep breath, Madelyn."

My body goes rigid as I feel his hand between my legs.
"No.." My voice is panicked. "No!" I pull my body from the altar, pushing back against Tommy.
He responds with a hard strike against the right side of her buttocks. "Don't make this worse, Madelyn. Don't make me make this worse."
I remain upright, tense, but not struggling. "Please don't. Don't do this." I whisper.
"This is for you, Madelyn. If I don't place these nice hooks through the lips of your cunt, how are you going to learn?" He places a light kiss in between my legs, his nose brushing against me.

I grimace, losing the fight with own terror as my eyes well with red. Crossing my arms over my chest, my legs tremble as I fight down nausea."...don't hurt me."
"I have to help you, Madelyn. I suppose that I could find another way, but those might be even harder for you. Do you want me to try something else, Madelyn?" He stands, whip in hand, behind me. "I worry that you're only going to make this worse for yourself."
My tone is pleading. "I want you...I want you to stop." I turn slightly to face him, backing away as much as I can. "Please, Tommy? I don't deserve this."
"You're worth it, Madelyn. I'm sorry that it hurts, but you do deserve it. Every effort is worth it for you. I'm willing to make that sacrifice, because you are worth it."
When I back up, he snaps the whips many heads against my bare stomach. My hand darts out of it's own accord, as I attempt to catch the whip and wrest it from his grasp.Tommy loses his grip of the whip when I catch it. "Madelyn, stop before I have to hurt you."
I clench the whip in my first, panting slightly despite my lack of breath. I step further back from Tommy, brandishing the weapon with unconvincing threat. He makes a small seemingly ritualistic gesture with his hands, stepping within an inch of me with semi-supernal speed. "Madelyn, you will stop. Madelyn, you will give me back the whip."
My name on his lips does nothing to calm my terror. I draw the whip close to my body, my eyes wide. "I don't.." My body  shudders, as I drop her gaze from Tommy. "I want to."
He places a hand under my breast, softly rubbing the skin with the space between his fingers.
"Madelyn. There is freedom in submission. When this is over, you'll thank me, and you'll be free to go out into the world and live a better life. Give me the God damned whip."
His touch is gentle, but I grimace in pain. I hold the whip towards him, my fingers still clenched tightly.
He places the hand not on my breast around the whips exposed leather. He tugs at it. "You will do this." Still avoiding his eyes, I loosen my grip, one finger at a time.

Tommy takes the whip, then points back to the altar. "You will go back to the altar, or I will visit upon you a lesson that will leave you begging me for a return to death. Defy me again, or place yourself over the altar so that I can begin helping you." There's a flash of defiance in my expression, stunting what would be immediate movement. Just as quickly, it's gone, as I once more drops my eyes and move in the direction Tommy points. He follows me closely, examining my flesh from behind. He peers at my scars, and tongues the open corners of his lips. "Return to your position over the altar. Spread yourself widely. I will not abide the fat of your buttocks interrupting the lesson." I do as he orders, squeezing my eyes shut as I place my palms and elbows on the wood, once more bending over. I spread my legs slightly, my knees shaking. "To think that we could have been done by now if not for your disobedience truly hurts me, Madelyn. Be still and spread yourself farther." He squats behind me and begins loudly licking the hooks at the end of the whip. I can feel the heat from his mouth close behind me, and the light misting of saliva specking off of the metal onto my back-side. My only response is a whimpering pant as I slide my booted feet further apart. Tommy is lax in the beginning of his work. He suckles loudly on the first hook, then places his left index finger under my groin. He is gentle, parting my lips and taking one between two fingers. I dig my nails into the wood as he places the point of the hook against my flesh. "Breathe deeply.", he states. I ignore his words, my needless breath whistling rapidly through my lungs. The barb penetrates my skin, and I jerk slightly, biting back my howl of pain. I press my forehead against the altar, hard, as I squeeze my eyes shut. Tommy, smiling, kisses my backside as he prepares the second hook. "Good girl." I don't reply, managing to keep my body still in preparation for his next move. He makes a large licking sound as he places one hand on my butt cheek, spreading it away from the center. "This is becoming troublesome, you should know. Quite an irritation." He places a saliva covered finger from his left hand quickly into my anus after releasing the cheek with the right. Then, nearly a second after pressing the finger up to his knuckle, he applies the second hook into my skin, parallel to the first. A small, frightened sound escapes my lips as my back arches slightly. The red tinged tears that have only threatened to fall from my eyes before now leave tiny dark stains on the altar. "Yes, that's Tommy's good girl."
He begins a rhythm of pumping with two fingers inside of me. The other hand picks up another hook and places it in his mouth. "We're almost done with this part, now. Almost done."
"P...please." My voice is timid and weak. I still hold my position, save for my hands that curl into claws by the sides of my head.
After a moment, he places a hook through the skin adjacent to the first. "Yes, daddy's good little girl. She's almost done with her lesson." 

As the words are spoken from Tommy's lips, it incites rage instead of fear. My submissive, accepting posture stiffens. My clawed hands clench into fists and my right foot pulls back to kick out at the priest. While being kicked back, he pulls the whip back with him, ripping out the hooks. Tommy screams in a rage, throwing his weight behind another crack of the whip at my back. "I can't believe this, you little shit. You need this!"
I let out my own scream as the whip hits my already abused flesh. I feel my own blood pouring from the wounds between my legs. My eyes wide and red rimmed, I turn, expecting the steel gray eyes of my Sire. "You bastard, you can't do this to me again!"
"I know I can't! There was a plan, Madelyn, there was a method! You've ruined it! I don't know if I'll be able to complete the lesson. You might not ever be better if I don't do this for you!" Tommy snaps the whip to the side. "You will return to the position and I will find a new way to help you. I won't give up on you."
"No." I reply plainly, no hint of pleading in my voice as I stand before him, naked, bloodied and bruised.
"You're better than this, Madelyn. You deserve to be better. Let me help you. Let me heal you." Tommy approaches me and places the whip on the ground. His eyes look over my wounds with interest. I flinch away as he approaches, covering my chest with crossed arms. He raises a hand, not to hit but, to wipe some of the blood from my shoulder. "Madelyn."
I part my lips to respond, pause, and then speaks. "Tommy." My head lowers, as tears trail matching red lines down my cheeks. As I turn my gaze to the floor, he strikes me with the back of his hand. I cry out, holding my palm against my aching cheek.
"Madelyn. Back over the altar. Face up, this time."
I wipe at my face, staring at Tommy as if I can't comprehend his words. "Face up. Madelyn, I will not repeat myself a third time."
I take a few steps back, before falling to my knees at his feet. "Please," I beg. "Please don't do this anymore. Don't hurt me anymore."
He places his foot against my chest, pushing me onto my back. I fall, kicking my feet under me as I try to crawl away from him. He bends, taking one of my legs under each of arms. "Madelyn," he states without emotion.
I struggle against him, shouting, "No!"
He retains his hold, his arms tightening as he repeats me name. I continue my struggling, meeting his eyes with little hesitation until he drapes himself over me. "Stay still." His fangs graze against my side, next to my left breast, and I freeze when he bites down. His tongue darts over the wound while he lightly sucks blood from me. His hands, not as tightly gripping, grasp at my waist. I feel no pleasure, simply repulsion as I turn my head away from him and towards the church doors. He drinks for a moment, before raising his head with a sound of disgust. "You taste like absolute refuse. No, I'll have to do this a more traditional way. Get up on the altar."

"Yes, Tommy." I press my lips together, attempting to extract myself out from under him.
He stands and retrieves the whip. "Now." I glance at the door one more time, before walking back over to the altar, climbing onto the wood and leaning back. I shut my eyes, my lips moving without making a sound. Tommy walks to the edge of the altar and spreads my legs wide. He examines the ruined flesh between my legs. "Heal yourself. I won't be touching a cunt that's so used up and worthless." Not opening my eyes, I expend enough blood to heal my extensive wounds. My thighs tense up, and I can't help but draw my legs closer together. Tommy unbuckles his belt, then unzips the front of his slacks. With his hands, he begins testing the flesh between my legs. He examines me like a doctor, like a scientist, or like a voyeur. My lips stop moving, and I quiver at the sound of his zipper. I shrink away from his touch, as much as the table's surface will allow. "No," he states. He sticks his fingers in me, filling both my orifices and stilling my movement as he grinds his thumb into my anus. "Find yourself a place of comfort, Madelyn, because I have no intention of stopping before you are well." My expression becomes sickened, my face contorting with how tightly I close my eyes. Tommy, dutifully, removes his fingers from me and replaces his thumb with his cock. He pulses slowly, picking up the bottle of sacramental wine with the hand that doesn't hold up my leg. "You're doing well, Madelyn. Very well. Almost done." I cry out at the violation of my body, quickly covering my mouth with my hand. Despite my closed eyelids, a tear still leaks from the corner of one eye. My other hand lays dormant, balled into a fist by my side. I hear a scraping sound as Tommy peels the paper label from the wine bottle with his nails, continuing to pump into me. I struggle to keep my body stiff and unresponsive during the assault. I hear the gurgle as he drinks from the bottle, twitching as he pours some of it over my crotch, working it into my flesh with his knuckles as he forces himself inside of me over and over. A pained moan comes, muffled, from under my hand as I flinch from the feel of his body on mine. He places the mouth of the bottle against my womanhood, slowing his thrusting. "Breathe for me, Madelyn. It's almost done." I force my eyes open, turning my head towards him with a herculean effort. Still covering my mouth, I meet his eyes and accede with his request, pulling air deep into my lungs. Tommy presses the bottle's neck far into me as he pulls himself out of my anus. "You're doing well, Madelyn. Almost done." My stomach contracts with the forced breath that hitches in my chest. I fight down nausea and clench my hand tighter against my mouth, still holding his gaze. He looks down to me, his eyes filled with sympathy and compassion, even as he presses the neck of the bottle in and out of me. "You are brave for not leaving, Madelyn. You are strong for enduring. There is freedom here." 

Despite my fear and disgust, I can't help but feel mollified. I remove my hand from my mouth, holding it to my chest, lips quivering slightly. He removes the bottle from inside of me and stares deeply into my eyes. "Speak."
"Thank you, Tommy."
"I do this all in remembrance of you." He leans down to kiss me, and I accept, managing to scrape up a modicum of passion. His expression is alight with good intention, and he pulls away from me after placing a soft kiss between my legs. "I have a shower you may use before you go, if you wish. I have also clothes for you if you wish to have them. Next time that you come, we may have to disrobe you far before we begin our work." 
I sit up, my shoulders curled inward, my head bowed. "I...may I have the clothes?"
"You may." Tommy leaves to the side room, and I remain on the altar, pulling my knees to my chest. He returns with a plastic pail of water, a sponge, and a shopping bag. A towel hangs over his shoulder. Looking at me, he places the items on the floor, filling the sponge with water from the pail. "Lay back, Madelyn." I reluctantly release my hold on my legs, leaning back tentatively. He pulls my boots off, sponging my feet with the warm water. He moves up my to my calves, cleaning off all traces of blood and wine. The front of his trousers are still tented with his erection, and I look away, embarrassed as he adjusts himself.
I speak quietly as he cleans me. "I'm...I'm sorry. You don't have to do that."
"I do. You've been through an ordeal, and I'm happy to help." He moves up my legs, cleaning my skin and kissing it in a paternal manner. "Next time, I'll prepare a large bath for you with hot water. This experience, while horrid, does not have to be without pleasant reprieve."
"Thank you." I reply, softly.
Tommy continues, washing between my legs. He adjusts me slightly, cleaning under my thighs. I turn my head away for this act, a small crease forming between my brows as he cleans deeply to remove all wine residue. Pleased with his work, he moves up to my stomach. "You're a good girl, Madelyn. We're going to make you well again. I swear that to you." He washes my stomach, then my breasts, taking care to constantly wash the sponge out so as to clean me thoroughly. There's something behind  his eyes when he states, "I'm so proud of you."
My eyes tick back and forth, studying his face. With effort, I turn up the corners of mouth slightly, "Thank you."
Tommy moves to my shoulders, pulling me up to a sitting position. He washes my back with the warm water. "I bought the clothes for you about a year ago. I'm glad to have had the chance to give them to you, now."
I hold my hands in my lap as he cleans, my voice a trifle more steady as I speak. "I'm glad that I'm here to receive them."

Tommy completes the task of cleaning, then places the towel against me, draping it over my chest to guard my modesty. "I will leave you to change alone, if you'd like. If you prefer, I can dress you. I know you may be exhausted."
My hands raise, still shaking, to touch the towel's softness. "Could you dress me? Please?"
"Yes, Madelyn. I would be glad to."
He places his hand before me, and I take it, accepting his assistance. He gently pulls me off the altar, taking the towel from my chest and drying me gently. Retrieving the clothing from the shopping bag, and asks me to raise my arms. I comply, standing nude before him with my hands skyward. He pulls a thin black t-shirt down my arms and over my head, straightening it out over my breasts. He retrieves a pair of modest white undergarments, instructing me to raise each leg in turn as he pulls the fabric up my thighs and onto my hips. I keep my gaze ahead, toying with the bottom of the shirt as he holds a plaid skirt against my waist, zipping it and momentarily struggling with the buttons and clasps. when complete, he asks, softly in my ear, "Are these to your liking?"
My head cocks to the side when his lips are at my ear. I turn my attention to the clothing, and then to Tommy. "Yes, they're perfect." I hate the sickening adoration in my tone as I continue, "Thank you, Tommy."
"You are welcome Madelyn," he states with a sense of tired finality. "I would have procured a brazier, but I was not aware of your size. Next time, we'll have to ensure that your clothes aren't torn by the lessons."
I nod, staring up at him. My posture is still subservient, as I gently chew on the inside of my bottom lip. Tommy walks around me, then places a hand to my chin. "Return to me when you feel confused again. If the world begins to terrify and afflict you, know that I will be here. You have a place in my home, and I will always be willing to teach you. I love you, Madelyn, and will not let you be left out alone."

A small, pleased, shameful whimper escapes me as he speaks his piece. I step closer to him, placing my palms and head on his chest. He places his arms around me, hands on my waist. He's silent, nose buried in my hair. I wilt in his embrace, my unbridled tears soaking the front of his suit coat. He supports me, lifting me in his arms and carrying me to a pew. He settles onto the cushioned wood with me in his lap, cooing to me like I'm a child. "You're alright, Madelyn. Everything is okay."
"I know," I respond automatically. "I'm sorry I...bled on you."
"It is of no concern." He preens my hair, breathing in my scent.
In a small, quiet tone, I inquire, "Do you really love me?" Before he can answer, I speak again. "I'd like to stay here with you. For the day."
Tommy responds equally quietly, as if careful not to disturb the atmosphere of the chapel. "I do, and I'm happy that you wish to do so."
I nod, my head still in his lap, my expression relatively relaxed. He grasps onto me, standing. Moving slowly, not to disturb me, he carries me to a bedroom hidden within the chaotic architecture of the chapel. Pulling the sheets aside, he places me into his bed, humming a hymn as he does so. "Stay as long as you like, Madelyn. You and I, Madelyn. No two are as one in desire and intention as we both to each other." He stares at my prone form, appearing to drink in my countenance.
My forehead remains creased with tension, as I ask, "Will you.." I hesitate. "Will you hold me?"

"Yes, my little monster. I will lay with you until the sun swallows us whole." His words make me flinch, my body stiffening. He discards his filthy, blood stained attire, climbing behind me in his briefs. His hand rests on my hip, and I place my own over it, forcing myself to relax into his embrace.

Before I drift off to sleep, I roll over to face him, my cheek pressing against his chest. He kisses my forehead and places a hand behind my head. The comfort and security of his presence serve to lull me to sleep, and the last words I hear from him are, "You'll never be left out alone, Madelyn. I love you."

https://youtu.be/eOXOh9V2wFA

Save me if I become my demons.

My thumb hovers over the send button on my phone, as I stare down at the device with concern. Part of the reason I keep coming back to this old house is the safety and assurance that no one else knows where it is. I can escape, and hide, and...

Gritting my teeth, I send the message, giving Alex the knowledge and location of my home.
"Jesus Christ."
I toss the phone onto the half broken patio chair, where it falls through a hole in the seat and clunks off the floorboards. Forcing air from my lips, I blow my bangs out of my face and pace the porch.
Should I clean the place up?
I peer around at the dilapidated old Victorian. A lost cause, mainly due to my lack of skill in drywall and masonry. Feebly, I glance at my own clothing, satisfied by the lack of dirt or bloodstains marring the fabric. Shrugging, I sit on the step, leaning against the railing and stretching my legs out in front of me.

After an indistinct amount of time, I shake out of my mini fugue and turn my head towards the sound of a car pulling into the private road leading to the house. As the sound draws closer, I sniff the air, catching the familiar scent of Alex's Camry. A few minutes pass, and the headlights illuminate my own rusted vehicle, and the surrounding area. I watch as Alex exits his car, reaching into the back seat to grab his usual backpack and a smaller bag. My expression falters, torn between being pleased to see him, and wary of a visitor to my home. He moves towards the house, greeting me, his tone jovial.
"I think I've read several creepy pastas about this place. Did the Blair Witch give you a good deal on it?"
I smile somewhat hesitantly, and glance over my shoulder at the house.
"Didn't used to look this spook-tastic, but I guess it's a good place to fulfill my goth kid stereotype."
He smiles as he stops at the bottom of the porch, looking up at the building.
"Nah man, it's great. What alternative kid hasn't fantasized about living in the Addams family house?" He looks toward me, giving a small nod "You look cute, by the way...I'm hitting on you." he adds, motioning for me to follow him. "I need another set of hands, just passing things while I have a look under your hood." He smirks. "Not hitting on you, but eh? "
The smile that spreads on my face is face less strained as I comment, "Smooth, Alex. Super smooth." Nevertheless, I rub at my cheek, as if hiding a blush of color that doesn't appear.

Rising from the step, I make my way to the Jetta, reaching to open the driver's side door. My hand pauses, and the corners of my mouth draw downward.
The door should be open. I never shut it after I died. Real, or not real?
Alex moves over to the Jetta as well, setting down his bag, and kneeling down to take a look under the car. He shakes his head a little and is moving to open his bag when he notices me paused at the driver's side door.
"What's up?" he asks casually, opening his bag and removing a small flashlight, turning it on and shining it down under the car.
I pull my hand back as if burned, clutching it to my chest. Hearing Alex's voice, my attention switches to him. I stare at him blankly, my expression frightened and uncomprehending. I blink, and shake my head slightly. My lips part as if I'm going to speak, but instead I quickly swing the car door open, reaching inside to push the hood release.
"Sorry," I mumble, not looking at Alex. "Had a...moment."
I feel his eyes on me, peeking through my bangs to see him nod and stand up. He fiddles under the hood, flipping the latch.
"No problem, moments happen. If you're not comfortable with any of this, just let me know and we can stop, or I can work alone, no prob." He props the hood up and shines the flash light down, hands moving over some of the rusted pieces as he started to pull out leaves and other debris.
"What year is this? Do you know? "
His voice is casual, and I almost want to breath a sigh of relief.
"It's a 2002." I place one of my hands flat against the window, trying to ignore the images of my own death flitting around in my subconscious. "And you're good. It just...I.."
I glance at a spot on the ground. The spot when I fell after they beat the strength from me. I flinch, as the mini confession creeps from my mouth. "Some weird shit happened last time the car actually drove. I'm still trying to work out what it was."
He nods, attention still on the engine. "Well, if it's any consolation, it's going to be awhile before it drives again. You have some time to try and work through things." He leans forward, shining the flashlight down into the guts of the car. "Gurl, you got coons in you undercarriage." he says jokingly, giving a small laugh. "Not really, but definitely some chipmunks."
I smile, but the smile is brittle. "Yeah, they fucked up my upholstery, too. That, and the bloodstains."

I lean against the side of the car, head turned to watch Alex as he tinkers."I think I died here."
His hands move over the battery, flipping the small covers and shaking his head some. He stands up and moved back to his bag. "What can you remember? That you're comfortable with sharing, of course." He pulls out a rag and several tools, going back to the car. He hands me the flash light, and I stare at it, uncomprehending. "Shine it right there." He points towards the engine as he takes off his sweatshirt, an old white t-shirt adorning his upper body.
I point the light where he directs. "I remember coming home from Elysium. Didn't feel like hanging around Tommy or Simon. I..." My forehead creases, as I internally flinch away from the memories. "I don't know how they could have followed me. There were three or four...and as soon as I got out of the car I couldn't move." I watch the beam of the flashlight jitter slightly. "It was the Sabbat, and the Cam killed all of them they could find afterwards. But...how many times can someone die?"
He leans back over into car, unscrewing something and remaining silent and engaged as he listens.
"If you had asked me that in 1977, I'd have said only once...but, here we both are. If we can be living, mythical creatures from fantasy, god damn, any fucking thing is possible." He falls silent for a minute before adding. "I am just as clueless as to what could have happened, but ..you're here, right now. And, I selfishly feel lucky as shit for that."

I'm glad that the small whimper I hear is only in my head. I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. The beam of the flashlight quickly becomes ineffective as I slides down the side of the car, sitting cross legged in the dirt. "That. Honestly fucking bamboozles me."
He remains stationary, leaned over in the dark, his hands remaining on the parts he had been fiddling with. He's silent for long enough to entice a slight panic in me, before I hear him chuckling. "I am so, utterly bad at this." He stands up, moving to the side of the car and crouching down to my spot in the dirt. "I literally can't articulate the things I want to right now, to you. I'm angry," he says,  pulling his eyes to the woods around them. "I'm angry that someone hurt you the way they did. I'm angry, that I couldn't help you then. I'm angry, that I...can't take your pain, and the shit you're feeling away right now." He pauses, looking back to her. " But mostly? I just want to hold you, without seeming like a dweeb."
His words seem to absorb into my brain, reminding me so much of...
No. Don't go there. Stay in the now.
I cling to the flashlight, as if it's a life preserver watching Alex closely, even as he looks away.
"Alex, I don't think you know what you're getting into with me. I...I'm a mess. And it's contagious. I'm not like..I'm not the kind of person people want to stick around." I chew my lip, still clutching the flashlight. "You're really great, and I don't want to ruin you. I can't not, though. I don't think I have the capacity to...not." I lower my head, thinking of Law, thinking of Mongrel, and shamefully dropping my eyes from Alex's.

I feel him watching me, knowing he's listened to every word. He moves so that he's sitting next to me on the ground. "I might be socially retarded, but I know that I can't change what you're going through right now. I know you are working through things I can't fathom." His hands fiddle with the screw driver he had been using earlier as he speaks. "But, I also know how I feel about you, right now, at this moment...and there is a very short list of things that would make me not want to be around you any more." He smiles a bit "Nothing needs to happen between us, Madelyn. Nothing that hasn't already happened. First and foremost, I'm your friend. I will never consciously force you to do, or feel anything you don't want to...but,  I can't help but care for you. I'll be here, for as long as you want me to be...in whatever capacity we both can give." He rests one of his hands next to mine, cautiously running a finger over the back of my hand.
As he speaks, I pull my knees to my chest, resting my forehead on them and hiding my face behind a curtain of pink hair.
Oh, how the past harmonizes.
It draws the familiar fear and ache that I told myself I'd cut out of my emotions. Feeling his touch on my skin, I release my grasp on the flashlight and tentatively take Alex's hand. My grip is firm, relaying a strength I don't really feel. I lift my head and turn to meet his eyes, hoping terror doesn't show in my expression. "I'm scared, Alex."
He holds onto my hand, rubbing his fingers over mine as he watches me. He looks out over the dark forest, and at the tiny bugs that crawled amongst them on the ground. "That's totally understandable. I probably would be too. I'm afraid that I could lose you, to something I can't fight.." he falls silent for a minute. "But, I'm right here..and although I might not be able to fight the demons you have following you, I will not let you fight them alone. If you don't want to." He intertwines his fingers with mine, holding onto my hand.
"Heh. I don't want to. I've never wanted to, but somehow I always end up alone." My hand tremors slightly in his. "I don't want to hurt you. For once, I don't want to hurt someone who's helping me. I...I don't even care if I get hurt. Like, if you decide you're fed up and just like, go your own way. S'fine. I understand. But, you can't let me hurt you." I rub vigorously at my face with my free hand.
"I know I'm talking in circles. I'm sorry. I just...don't want you jumping into the pool without knowing what's in the water." I make a face, disapproving of my own words. "...shitty..metaphor."
I meet Alex's eyes, reaching out to his mind with my telepathy, but not actually conveying any message.
"I know you don't want to hurt me, probably just as much as I don't want to hurt you. Everything we do in this after life is dangerous, the fact that I haven't been burnt to a crisp yet amazes me. What I'm trying to say is...I know. I know that you're in a bad position right now. I also know that I don't -want- to walk away." He looks up, returning my gaze and letting me reach into his mind. "I've been alone for a very long time. It feels really nice not to be." He forces a small smile on his face. "I don't really want to go anywhere else."

Staring at him in disbelief for a brief moment, I rub at my cheeks again, feeling embarrassed. "Christ, I'm glad I don't blush anymore." I scoot closer to Alex, relaxing slightly in his proximity. "Thank you. For not running away. For not -wanting- to run away. For...y'know.." I shut up before my shame gets the best of me.
He moves closer as well, letting his arm rest in my lap as he holds onto my hand. "All the color went to your hair...heh it must be one of those rare blood traits." He chuckles softly. "Thank you for trusting me enough to let me stay." He falls silent for a minute before he whispers. "I don't know why you're so worried about me, anyway. I'm the Hardcore Anal Vixen of Baltimore. I'm not the hero this city deserves, I'm the hero this city needs."
I burst into genuine laughter, adding "With great anal power, comes great responsibility."
He joins in my laughter. "Oh man, I'm not ready for this kind of anal responsibility."
We laugh together, and then with little planning and sudden movement, I lean towards Alex and kiss him. My senses come to me far too quickly, and I pull away, making an indiscernible noise, and resting my head against his shoulder. The sharp pain in my forehead tells me that it's less like a gentle resting of the cranium, and more like a smushing my face against his arm to mask my embarrassment. He sits there, looking shell-shocked, but blushing. He raises his arm and places it around my shoulders gently as I bury my face into his shoulder. I feel him kiss the top of my head, and bite my tongue against a pleased whimper. "You look really cute tonight," he whispers, quietly.
"So do you." I reply, muffled, into his shoulder. Telepathically, I continue, "Suave and smooth are two words that apparently aren't in my vocabulary."
He chuckles "Gurl, I'm literally the most awkward thing to ever be immortal." He looks back out into the woods " I'd ask if you'd want to stay up and watch the sun rise, but I'm dark enough as it is."
I snicker a little, still muffled by his arm. "Burnt to a crisp isn't a good look for me."

Eventually, I turn my head to stare out into the woods as well. We sit in silence, his presence enough to keep my voices at bay, at least temporarily. When I sense the dawn closing in, I wordlessly rise to my feet, wrapping my fingers around Alex's wrist and pulling him up with me.
Don't let him say anything. Just let him follow. I don't think I can verbalize what I need, right now.To my relief, he follows quietly. I lead him into the house, passing the bathroom with only the slightest hesitation. My bedroom is mostly bare, save for the notes and drawings tacked to the wall. Releasing his wrist, I sit on the bed, looking down at my feet.
"Will you stay with me?"
I squeeze my eyes shut until I hear his voice.
"Yeah."
Peering up through my bangs, I smile slightly as he climbs into the bed next to me. Laying on my side, I curl against Alex's body, rest my head on his chest, and await what will hopefully be a dreamless sleep.

Dearest helpless. Intent's not as bad as the action.

Deep in the woods, deep where the canopy of trees block all but the barest scrap of sunlight. A spot where the dirt seems freshly turned. The smell of earthworms still hanging, moist, in the air. Buried under the soil are scrawled words on a sheath of paper. Words, meaningless to anyone other than the writer, or intended recipient.

Meaningless still, even then.

"Mongrel,
           The chances of you actually reading this are slim. Mainly because I have no intention on tracking you down again. No. I think we both know how that turns out.

I'd like to say I hope this letter finds you well, but of all the things I am, a liar isn't one of em. I guess for as long as you exist happy, without me, I'm far too selfish to wish you well. Selfish enough to hope that pretty boy merc up and leaves you. Selfish enough to hope you spiral down into a self destructive pattern. Selfish enough to hope that someone follows you while you head to your empty house. And beats you. And kills you. And leaves you for dead.

Or something.

I'm getting off track.

It's easier to be bitter and angry towards you. Otherwise, I've gotta admit stuff about myself that I don't want to. You know how stubborn I am. You remember.

And yet, every time I hate you, I think of you first. Because regardless, I would have died that night. I would have died a quiet death, just to protect you from harm. If those Sabbat fucks had laid a hand on you...well. You know. You've seen me in action.

I digress. 

Or maybe I don't, since I don't even know the point of this letter. It's not like I need to cause you any more pain. Bitter as I am, I'd rather leave the hurting you part to someone else. Hell, maybe afterwards you'd let me fix you, for once.

And there I go again.

You've playfully and not playfully accused me of a lot of things. Stalking you. Haunting you. But really, who's haunting whom? Because it seems like no matter how much I try to blame you for this whirlwind of fuck-all crazy my life(?) has become, or how often I blame you for letting me die...I would still kneel at your feet, should you ask it of me. That word. That fucking word. I really CAN blame you for this one.

Love.

I'm never not gonna love you.

Should I curse you? Should I thank you? You certainly didn't save me, but god damn if you didn't make me feel something other than wholly absorbing blood lust and insanity. Ironic, that you kept my voices so quiet sometimes, and now that's all you are. A voice in my head. A stray whiff of clove and spice. Just strong enough to make me want to hit you and hug you. Because fuck, I still love you.

I'm pathetic.

I want to say you'd be proud of me, if you saw me now. I'm making something of myself, again. Letting people in. I'm stronger. Well, in some ways.

This is stupid. This is pointless. You're not gonna read this. If you ever did, it wouldn't matter. If you came back too, chances are I'd lose it completely.

Whatever.

                                                                                Never not yours,
                                                                                     Maddie"


https://youtu.be/7Gm8-V1Mhu8

I look around but it's you I can't replace. I feel so cold and I long for your embrace.

Every breath you take,
Every move you make.

I creep around the house, peeking into each room.
I know you're here. You're always here.
I'm greeted by nothing but silence and emptiness. Chewing my fingertips, I pause in the hallway.
Why is he hiding? Why has it been so hard to find him, lately?
I come back into the living room, plopping cross legged on the dirty carpet. On the coffee table, my magpie-like collection of belongings are spread around the wooden surface. I peer at a new addition, a small computer part, smuggled from the floor of Alex's Camry. The smallest smile sneaks onto my face, but seems to melt away just as quickly.
None of it is enough.
I sit on the carpet, still as the hours pass and the shadows crawl across the wall.

Every bond you break.
Every step you take.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up without warning. My spine stiffens, my senses becoming alert to every movement in the room. I breathe in through my nose, shivering when the scent hits me.
He's here.Keeping my eyes on the floor, I speak in a quiet tone.
"It's you, isn't it?"
I'll be watching you.
I feel his hand on my shoulder, the weight of it as familiar as it ever was. Without him asking, I rise to my feet.
"You came."His firm grip turns me to face him, his other hand lifting my chin so that I meet his cold gray eyes.
"You asked me to, monster."His voice, his stare, everything about him sends that old shock of terror through my system. But, beyond the terror is that sick sense of comfort. The familiarity of my blood on his breath.
"I'm lost. I...I don't know what is real anymore. You're...you're the only constant that I have."He pulls me close, clenching me in his embrace. His lips brush the side of my face, and I flinch despite the danger I know that can bring.
"You're shorn, little sheep. The flock departs, leaving the lamb to fend for herself."I shake my head.
Not what I want. Riddles and metaphors. I need...His hand slides from my shoulder, to my throat. His fingers dig into my flesh, as an edge creeps into his voice.
"I know what you need, monster. But, if you wish to skip the chase and go straight to the capture.."

He lifts me with one hand, his strength contradictory to his lithe frame. With little effort, he heaves me down, the coffee table smashing under me, my belongings scattering onto the floor. It's then that I realize how foolish I am. Once again, I strode headlong into my own destruction. He bends down, and I turn my face away. He ignores me, reaching for the notebook that's wedged under my right elbow.
"No!" 
He strikes me in the face with the leather cover, cutting off my cry of disdain. His long fingers pick through the pages as he chuckles, low in his throat. His steely gaze leaves the pages, and falls on me. He tosses the book back down at my feet.
"You've been trying to forget me. Real, or not real?"
I swallow hard, wanting to lie. Even if the pages didn't confirm this, he would know.
"Y...yes."
He flicks his foot through the detritus of the shattered table, shaking his head.
"Ungrateful little pet. Ungrateful BRAT!" 
His foot catches me in my ribs, and I feel something break, puncturing some vital organ than lay dormant in my torso. I attempt to lift myself up, and his foot comes down hard on my chest. Whimpering, I unwillingly look up at him.
"I make you, I CREATE you, and spit in my face! I guide you, and come when you call. I am the only one who has never left you to snivel and sob on your own!"
I try to sputter out a response, and he's on me in an instant. My body pinned under his, my wrist bones grinding in his fists, I beg in my head for him to let me go. He laughs in my face, his carrion breath pulled down my throat as I gasp, a hot fog in my lungs.
"No matter what you are, you will always be mine."
His jaws clamp into my neck, consuming me like the night he took my life. I grow weak, not even noticing as his weight is lifted from my body. Silently sobbing, the vitae slowing leaking from the wound on my neck, I realize that there is no screaming myself awake this time. I am conscious, and alone. I claw in the splinters around me, pulling close the bits of my belongings that I can reach.
I draw my knees to my chest and remain there, soaked in my own blood, until dawn.

Oh can't you see, you belong to me.

Oh no, here it is again. I need to know when I will fall in decay.

Why do I keep coming back here?
I climb up the porch, heading straight to my old bedroom. As usual, the old Victorian is silent. The air is stale, and everything is still in its state of disrepair and disuse. I flop down on my mattress, sending dust flying everywhere. The walls are covered with my own scribbled handwriting, the words mirroring the haphazard notes in my book. I stare at them blankly, glad to be alone, glad to be away from the influx of strangers that ebb and flow from Tybalt's home. Away from inquiries, and concerned glances.

I roll over onto my stomach, resting my head against the moth-eaten pillow. My clothes still smell faintly of spray paint, which brings a smile to my face. Of all the new (and real) people, Alex seems to be one of the easiest to be around.
Reminds me of Fate.
My smile fades a little. I know Fate was real. I know she was my friend. The ever present fog that muddles my memories prevents me from making any further comparisons between my past teenage friendship, and my present one.

Old friends. Old family.

I feel the comforting press of my notebook against my hip. Comforting, despite the fact that my notes do nothing to confirm or deny what is real.
Like Pyotr. Oh god, that couldn't have been him.
I close my eyes, still seeing the impossibly tall silhouette of the Russian Brujah. Still smelling the scent that told me it really was him. I spoke his name to Tybalt, but left before he could inquire further.
"He can't be back." I laugh aloud at my own spoken words. After all, are I supposed to be dead?

Rolling over again, I gaze up at the ceiling, chewing at my fingernails.
If I was never dead, where are these memories from? 
They're too real, far too real to be hallucinations. The only person to back up my memories is Tommy, and he's proven time and again that his sanity is as unstable as mine. There's Mongrel, but...

I glance towards the mirror that hangs backward on the wall.
If I was never dead, why do I still see her in the mirror, instead of me?
Her image, decayed and radiating every bit of evil I've denied. 
I saw her, every time she mocked me. Every time she pushed me to give in to her. Every time she hurt Mongrel.
Flinching, I look away from the blank frame.
There's no way I would have done those things to him. No matter how much he hurt me. No matter the fact that he left me alone. No matter the fact that he let me die.

My teeth miss the corner of my nail, ripping open a flap of skin on my thumb. I stare at the small bead of blood that wells in the wound, before wiping it on the dirty blanket under me. I know I should go back to Tybalt before he worries. I know, soon enough, he'll start searching for resolution to the questions I won't answer for him. Questions I can't answer for him.

Tired of my own thoughts, I fish my iPod from my pocket, place the headphones in my ears, and attempt to let the music lull me into comfort. I briefly glance at the title of the song that plays, and scoff.
Heaven's A Lie. Irony.

Everywhere now reminding me I am not who I used to be. I'm afraid this has just begun. Consequences for what I've done.

I keep thinking that if I don't open my eyes, I'll be OK. The smells, sounds, feelings...why should I open my eyes and add horror to yet another sense? Masochist. Always the masochist.

I force my eyelids open to no surprising sight.

The same concrete walls, the rusted bed frame in the corner. Shackles hanging from various spots around the room. The floor, its color indistinguishable save for the smears and stains of blood. My blood, of course. I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself, as if physically attempting to hold in the terror that creeps from my pores. At least I'm alone. Or am I? The steel table that normally holds an array of blood letting and similar items of torture is covered with a thick sheet. The shapes that tent the fabric hint to a vaguely humanoid shape underneath. I look away, shaking my head. Nope. No reason to look under there. In fact, why don't I just turn my gaze from everything but the door. I know it's heavy, locked, and impossible to budge when I was, what I was...before. I'm stronger now. I cross the room with a bravery I don't actually feel.

Again, no surprise when the door swings open before me. The surprise is who is on the other side.

"Tommy!" The priest strides into the room, alleviating only the most minuscule amount of fear. His expression is severe, unsmiling. He sets his eyes on the shape on the table, and then to myself. I shrink away until his lips turn up into the horrifying mockery of a smile that I'm used to. He gestures me forward, into his embrace. I comply despite my misgivings. His cold lips press against my forehead, and I'm almost comforted until I hear the slam and click of the door being pushed shut. I glance up, hoping my fear isn't as obvious as I think.
"No, Tommy, you don't understand. We need to get out of here. If He comes here..."
Tommy presses a finger to my lips. "Shh, Madelyn. We have work to do."
I blink, confused and wary. He pushes me away, stepping towards the table. Without knowing why, I shout "Don't!" 

He pulls the sheet off in a cloud of dust and exposes the being beneath. She appears to be about seventeen. She's tall enough so that her feet dangle slightly off the table, her athletic frame is chained to the cold steel. Her soft brown hair frames rounded features. A light fringe of bangs fall above bright green eyes, held wide open despite the body's inertness. The sight of her sends a shock wave through me, and I back up until the back of my knees hit the dirty mattress. I don't have to study the body to know little features such as chewed finger nails, and a small scar above the top lip. Tommy caresses the girl's face almost affectionately.
"I've found her, Madelyn. The perfect body for you." He looks to me. Smiles. "I told you I would bring you back."
My hands grasp at my sides, seeking the comfort of my knife, my notebook, my iPod...anything. Instead, I clench them into empty fists.
"I'm not dead. I...how did you find her? She's been hidden..."Tommy ignores the sputtered questions, gazing at my bound doppelganger. He seems displeased, even as the girl turns her head to him, expression showing the inquiry that I previously voiced.
"No, no. She isn't right. She isn't ready. Not yet." He glances around the room, contemplating the surroundings. He nods to himself, and begins unchaining the body. I only watch, unsure or unwilling to approach or intervene. When the body is released, the brown haired girl sits up, sliding off the side of the table and falling into Tommy's arms. Her face is all trust and innocence. He seems pleased, as he leads her over to a pair of hanging shackles. I want to call out to tell her to run, but I fear her fate will become mine. I bury my head in my hands as Tommy wraps the cuffs around her wrists. Falling onto the bed, I mumble to myself, trying to ignore my environment in hopes that it will prove to be just another delusion.

The abrupt sound of a sharp, metallic snap brings my attention forefront once more. The Necromancer, my friend, my lover...he stands before my hanging twin. The wooden handle, the nine silvery strips of cord, they're all so familiar. The thin wound seeping blood from the girl's back is familiar, as well. He hits her again and I jump from the bed, a shout of objection on my lips. Tommy turns to me, his face and his collar already speckled with minute traces of blood. His face is a snarl as he points to me with the hand not clutching the whip.
"Madelyn Alexis DeWittier, move no closer."
I'm halted in place, his will forcing me into immobility. No. No. He can't do this. HE CAN'T DO THIS. He smiles, pleased once more. "We must make her perfect. He scars must match yours. Your beautiful scars." His arm rises and falls, tearing strips of skin from the girl. Not a sound escapes from her lips. My maker would be so proud. With each blow, the stripes on my own back sting and tingle. With each blow, the smell of blood grows stronger. I watch the silent torture, meted out by the man who I deluded myself into trusting. The priest pants with exertion, a fine mist of sweat beading on his forehead. Abruptly, he tosses the blood stained whip onto the floor. "Close," he mutters. "Not quite ready, yet."

I want to shrink away from him as he approaches. His once handsome face is stippled with her blood, his eyes are dead and empty. He places a hand at my hip, running his fingers down my thigh and calf to grip the hilt of the knife sticking out of my boot. Pulling the blade out, he places a frigid kiss on my unresponsive lips. I taste myself in her blood. His absence is no more comforting then his presence, as he walks back towards his hanging victim. Facing the girl, he grazes the flat side of the knife against her face. She leans into the blade, as if it's a caressing hand. I'm frozen, whether in terror or compulsion, as his trails the blade in a familiar path down her body. With his free hand, he lifts the hem of her skirt. With the hand gripped around my blade, he draws the knife point up her now exposed thigh. He looks to me, his face melding into the one I've expected all along.
"She has to have ALL of your scars, monster."
He begins cutting and I begin shrieking and

I wake up in the bathtub, scream still ripping from my throat. I toss my clean, but nonetheless unwelcome knife across the room, where it clatters onto the porcelain. Pulling my notebook and iPod to my chest, I clench my eyes shut against anything that may want to creep from them, and for the third time this week, await the sound of Tybalt's concerned entrance.

Poison to everything I touch. The things I've done, so ruinous.

It's raining again, or maybe it never stopped. Either way, I pull my hood over my hair and stomp away from Tybalt's mansion. I feel weak. Used up. Lets not pretend that I don't know why. I fade from view as I make my way towards the more populated part of the city. Not bothering to look up from my feet, I follow my nose, and the smell of fresh, rich, flowing blood. A shudder goes down my spine, as the scent grows stronger. I hear them. Cars full of tired Kine coming home from their night shift jobs. Wayward teenagers, prowling the streets like they own the night. I chew at my lip, near famished, creating a bloodless wound in the soft flesh. Even hidden from their sight, the humans seem to unconsciously shrink away from something monstrous that stalks among them. At that, I'm torn between glee and sorrow.

I turn my head towards an ambrosial smell, my mouth practically watering. A couple is exiting some high end restaurant, and for a moment I'm perplexed by my ravenousness. Then I see it. Nestled, sleeping in daddy's arms. All cherubic curls, tiny sneakers, and Osh Kosh B'fucking Gosh. The purest, sweetest manifestation of innocence. Every bit of what am I focuses on the child, every voice is silenced, every bit of misery is culled. I see the couple approach their car with my coveted treasure. What to do. What to do. I have to be careful, any sloppiness will certainly come back to plague me. I tear my attention from the child, focusing on each adult in turn. With little effort, I prod and tweak around in their minds, dulling their emotions into a colorless glob of nothing. The woman opens the car door and plops into the seat, not bothering to close it behind her. The man opens the back door to place the child in a car seat, and I approach. He glances up at me, stepping an inch back and knocking into the side of the car. His expression can only be described as a calm terror. I stifle a snicker and speak directly into his thoughts. "Give me that." I point a gloved hand to the still sleeping child. He falters slightly, and my lip lifts into a hungry snarl. With a shaking grasp, he hands the child to me, almost appearing relieved once it passes from his possession, to my own. I take a few steps back, clutching the sleeping parcel, and fading from his sight. I only watch a moment, as he shrugs slightly and leans against the car door.

The smell of sweet blood overpowers my thoughts, and I have to take off running at an impossible speed, just to keep from tearing my meal...and the masquerade... to shreds. I cut through a neighborhood, following my senses to an empty, abandoned house. Several thick boards block the back entrance. I pull them off, one handed, jostling the child enough so that it starts to stir. Small sounds of fear and disgruntlement begin to come from the warm mass in my arms, and my mouth drops open in hunger. So young. So innocent. Memories of the young children my maker brought me to feed on flash through my head. For once, they do nothing to dissuade me. If anything the visions entice me further. I wrap my hands around the warm bundle, holding it to my chest. It's tiny features are ambiguous to me. The child is almost unnoticeable as a living being. It's nourishment. A vessel of pure, untainted sustenance. I bring the bundle to my face, inhaling the fresh aroma of it's flesh. The sweet nectar issuing unrestrained through tiny veins. My lips meet the smooth, unflawed texture of it's skin, and my teeth are in the small throat before my fangs even fully elongate. The saccharine liquid flows unbridled into my mouth and down my gullet. The small body empties within minutes but the time trips longer through the throes of my ecstasy.  When the veins finally run dry I toss the drained corpse into onto the dirty carpet. Not a drop wasted. 

I wander the empty house, my head almost buzzing with the silence and satisfaction. Every fear and delusion is a far whisper, barely even a tickle in my consciousness. Barely even a muted groan. I glance over the walls, reading graffiti-ed messages so fresh I can smell the flavor of the Kine that wrote them. I'm fine and full and happy until my green eyed gaze passes over the cracked, yet reflective surface of a darkened window.

And I see her. The ragged, unkempt clothing, hanging off a skeletal frame. Ribs laid open and bloodless from a gender-less chest. Matted clots of pink hair surround a dark gaping maw of nothingness where my face should be. There's a strangled howling of a sick animal nearby. The pained keening of a fox with it's paw in a trap. I want to turn to see what it is, but I'm stricken by the horrific reflection that stares me down without sight. "Who are you," I cry, but the mocking response from the window answers my question. That wailing again, answering another question as I fall to my knees. "Real, or not real? Real, or not real? Real, or not real?!" As I pray, I pull my K-bar from it's spot in my boot. I drag the blade against my cheek, my chin, my forehead. I want to fix what I saw. "Real, or not real?"

It hurts, I bleed, I plead.
"Mongrel. Tommy. Tybalt. Pyotr. Law. Dad. Master. Anyone."

"Help."

Fading, falling, lost in forever. Will I find a way to keep it together? Am I strong enough to last through the weather in the hurricane of my life?

In the lull at Elysium, unnoticed by the other Camarilla members, I Obfuscate and slip from the building. Despite the lack of devastating events, I need to get away. Reappearing a few blocks down, I climb into my unlocked, piece of shit Jetta. The old car still smells of mildew and shows signs of disuse. Starting the engine, the Genesis CD in the console starts playing and brings me a modicum of comfort. Pulling my notebook from the back of my skirt, I lean back in the seat and spread it open on my lap. My brow furrowed, I scrawl a few notes into it. My hand shakes slightly as I cross a few things out. I should be happy for a few spots of clarity, but no. I was really hoping some of this stuff wasn't real. Closing the notebook and turning up the radio, I pull from my spot and make my way home.

It's only after I reach the entrance to the winding road that leads to the house, that I remember Tybalt's offer. The woods loom ahead of me, and flashing back to the last time I rode up here after an Elysium, my hands begin shaking on the steering wheel. No. No, that didn't happen. If I did, I wouldn't be here, and I am. Knowing I should just turn around and head straight to Tybalt's manor, I press down on the gas and head up the road anyway. The windshield wipers squeak back and forth, barely clearing the rain from the glass. My eyes similarly tick back and forth, my senses alert to anyone or anything following me. I reach the paved driveway in front of the house and turn off the car. I'm alone out here, I know it. And yet. My hand freezes on the door handle. I can't bring myself to open it. My quiet whimper is heard over the tap of rain on the hood. What if? What if it's the same, all over again? I lift the handle, and halfheartedly push the door open. Nothing happens, so I step out. Holding the door open like a shield, I breathe in deeply. I smell nothing but the stink of my own fear. There's no one out here. Nothing attacks me.

With a strangled sob, I plop into the dirt next to the car. Leaning against the open door, I curl my knees to my chest and squeeze them. "Real, or not real? Real, or not real?" The words quickly become a mantra, as my clothes and hair steadily become more soaked by the rain. Part of me is tempted to call out to Tybalt's mind, but I keep my thoughts reigned in. He doesn't need this. 

I sit in the dirt I died on. The spot I was killed. Nothing happens. Did anything ever?

I reach behind me, into the car, and grab my notebook. Hunching over the pages to protect it from the rain, I write the nights activity, the people I met...anything I can before the lines of reality begin to blur.
Call me Al. Who?                                  Sabbat in the sewer.
             Sailix: Manservant. Assamite. Gay?                     Art: Toreador. Nice. Warm.
Cally: Nos. Prince(cess?)Nice.                Grendel: Nos. Really Nos. Likes rats. Nice.
                                Michael: Gangrel. Sheriff. Tybalt's friend. Impetuous. 
Got to keep my knife.              Scourge. Rictus, too.       Iskander: Assamite. Nosy. Primogen.
                                     Scum dude: Famous. Masquerade breachy? Gay?
Did that one guy hit on me?
I scrawl a sketch of a tire and try to ignore the shaking in my hand. The pencil snaps in my grasp, and I squeeze the splinters of wood into my flesh.

Dropping the shards of pencil in the mud, I force myself to my feet and slide into the driver's side once more. I almost expect to see my chainsaw sitting chummily close on the passenger seat, but no. I start the car, and without thinking too hard about it, head down the driveway. Tybalt will take care of me. He'll keep me safe. I hear an all too familiar chuckle and my foot reflexively hits the brake, the car skidding and mud splashing onto the side window. "No. No, no, no. Not you. Not real." I continue driving, only just managing to ignore the voice that hisses dissent in my thoughts, telling me that Tybalt will abandon me just like Mongrel, or worse, he'll end up delusional and dangerous like Tommy. When I finally pull in front of the sprawling manor, I only spend a minimal amount of time to plaster an attempt at a natural smile on my face, before joining my Lasombra friend in his home.

I hope someday you wake up from the terrible dream of watching one of your kindred fall. It takes a lot of dust and grind, to leave the world you love behind.

The rain is coming down hard enough to bend the leaves and branches. I sit on the porch steps, my feet hanging off just far enough to be spattered with drops. Inhaling through my nose, I smell nothing but wet soil, the woods are devoid of life. Well, except the life sitting here on these splintering wood stairs. Pulling my legs to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, I lay my head on my knees, squeezing my eyes shut.
I'm alive. Real, or not real?
Lifting my head slightly, I peer through the pink fringe of bangs at the white Jetta moldering in the driveway. The door still hangs open on rusty hinges.
I died there, didn't I? Did I? 
I remember stepping out of the car, oblivious to the danger until it was too late. Two, three, four Sabbat attacking me. I don't remember. I don't remember. I remember dirt and darkness. I remember the gray, lifeless landscape of the Shadowlands. That guy, the smart ass that told me where I was. I remember being in the dark. I remember burying myself.

I pull my feet up and out of the rain. According to my new buddy Alex, it's less than a week before the city's Elysium. Chewing my nails, I try to remember Alex's face. He was real, right? My brow creases with the attempt to discern the difference between delusion and reality. I stop chewing my nails when I notice the trickles of blood coming from the masticated flesh of my fingertips. There. I'm bleeding again. That's certainly real. I stare at the seeping red fluid. "But, Tommy said..." No. No. There's my mistake again. Tommy is just as fucking crazy as I am. I chew my lip. Isn't he?

Sighing, I wipe my bloody hand on my hoodie and pull a tattered notebook from under my seat on the steps. The paper is full of my own scrawled handwriting. I turn to a page with Tommy's name on it. The notes are as scattered at my thoughts.

Tommy will bring me back from the dead Not real.                    He cares. Real, or not real?
Killed Pyotr. Real.                                He ate Pyotr. Not real.
He wants to hurt me. Real, or not real?                      Made me hurt Mongrel. Real, or not real?
Crazy. Real.               The God thing. Not real.             Lover? Consensual, or not consensual.
The barbed wire. Not real.                      Stronger than Franco. Real, or not real.

I close the notebook, and my eyes, This was supposed to help, but it doesn't. I place my hand in my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the outdated iPod that I cling to like a godamned life preserver. What the fuck am I going to do in Baltimore. What the fuck CAN I do, except get myself killed. Actually killed. Staring out into the rain, I've no desire to move from this spot. The house at my back holds nothing for me, anymore. The few things that meant something have inexplicably disappeared, if they ever existed at all. My news clippings, my skates. The blank scraps of paper torn from a sketchbook that still hold that haunting cinnamon/clove smell. The sound of the rain doesn't quite mask the quietly pained whimper that escapes my lips. Resting my head on my knees once more, I link my hands together behind my neck and force my thoughts out until my senses tell me the sun will rise soon. Even though there's more than enough time to dawdle, I pick up my notebook and zip into the house in a blur of motion. None of the lights are on, but I know where I'm going. My footfalls echo in the mostly empty room, as I close the door behind me. Climbing into the cold, porcelain bathtub, I pull my hood over my head. Double and triple checking my pocket for the iPod, I pull my K-bar from my boot. Curling into a ball with my notebook under one arm, and my knife clenched in hand, I close my eyes and wait for the days sleep to pull me under.

https://youtu.be/CwJpa1J3nRs?list=PLK8WUhlDQgCYbLNLbABOu2gj7Aapy4O7y

Feeling freezes so I know it must be time to leave you, dear. Everything's warm when your heart grows cold.

May of 1973.

"Madelyn, I love you."
The three words seem to echo around the room several times before settling into my psyche. When they do, I extract myself out of Law's embrace. "...what?!" I spit out, taking another step back.
"I said, I lo..."
Almost slipping into my defensive crouch, I hastily interrupt the Gangrel when he starts to speak again. "No, Law. I heard what you said, I just, what the fuck?!"
He laughs tentatively at my sputtered outburst, the laugh trailing off as he reads my expression. "This shouldn't come as a surprise darlin'. After all, why else would I put up with your, well..." A glance at the boarded up window. Broken just a night or two ago during one of my episodes. 
"Maybe I figured you were a masochist." He attempts to step closer to me, possibly to pull me back into his arms. "Or a moron." He only just manages to mask the hurt expression that wants to show when I retreat back, creating more distance between us. Those three words keep bouncing around my already frazzled skull, and I have to shake my head in a failed attempt to clear it. "Law, you must be out of your fucking mind."
His aura churns sickly as he replies, voice laced with bitterness. "That would make it easier, wouldn't it? Easier for you. Then you wouldn't have to come to terms with the fact that you're not really the monster that you claim to be."
I flinch a bit at his words. "This isn't a good decision for you."
He scoffs. "Decision? Darlin', love isn't a god damned decision. Even you should realize that, as skewed as your sense of reality is."
That twangs at a nerve. "Gee, thanks Law." I spit out, angrily.
He sighs, holding his hands out in supplication. "Mad, look, let's not start flinging insults at each other. I don't expect you to reciprocate. You know I'd never push you into anything." His eyes settle on mine. "It's just something I wanted to.." he gestures with a hand. "..articulate. Nothing has to change." 

I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to continue looking at Law. His sincerity seeps into my thoughts, triggering the gag reflex of my emotions. No way. My eyes snap open, and settle on the Gangrel. He perches on the side of worn couch, his expression concerned. "Y'alright, Mad?" 
I shake my head, pinching my lips shut against any words that could incriminate me. Taking a few jerky steps out of the room, I'm unsurprised to hear Law's footsteps following. Without turning around to acknowledge him, I lurch over to my boots laying by the door, and in one swift movement, step into them and zipper them up. It's then that he reaches out to grasp my shoulder. For the first time in many months, I flinch away from him. I don't see the wounded look on his face, just as he misses my own stricken expression. His hand pulls away. "You're not running off, are you?"
I turn to face him, attempting to keep my face placid. "I just need to...go for a little bit. Go for a walk or," I shrug, stiffly.
He still looks worried. "You know I didn't mean to.."
I cut him off with a wave of my hand, speaking more calmly than I feel. "I'll be back, Law." My eyes flick down, just for a moment, betraying the honesty I try to convey. I reach out, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. "I'll be back." I hold his gaze this time, and he seems placated. Dropping his hand, I turn and fling myself out the door, into the dark and damp, wishing to get far from his benevolent gaze.

I'm almost proud of myself. I manage to make it several miles from the house, before collapsing on the moist dirt between a cluster of trees. What do I do, now? How could he spring something like this on me? How the fuck can he think he LOVES me? I know I should get up and keep walking. Keep walking until I'm out of his reach. Instead of rising, leaving and breaking my word, I pull my knees into my chest and bury my face against them. GET UP. "Noo.." I almost wish I'd slip into a episode. A tiny part of me wishes for my maker's hissing voice in my head. Anything, anything to point me in a sensible direction. I ignore the moisture in my eyes, on my cheeks, telling myself it's from the rain. There's no phantom words of wisdom, no threats of danger. I can't figure this out on my own. Please. I desperately glance around at the surrounding woods, as if some figure will step out and tell me how to live my unlife. I'm smart enough to not be disappointed when there's nothing and no one coming to my rescue. Maybe because I just ran from the one who's willing to rescue me. Scooting back in the mud, I lean against the tree behind me, my clothes and hair slowly getting soaked in the downpour. I stay there for hours, adjusting my position only to curl into ball in the dirt. It's only once the rain stops, that I mindlessly climb to my feet and trudge back to the house.

Tracking mud into the empty den, I pause only long enough to pull my boots off and toss them in the general direction of the front mat. I breathe in through my nose, and follow the familiar scent to Law's bedroom. A light can be seen in the hallway, and when I enter the room, he's sitting up in the bed, staring at me. He doesn't bother to hide the concern in his expression as I stand at the foot of the bed, my clothes dripping rhythmically onto the carpet. His golden eyes survey me, but he doesn't move from his spot on the bed.
"Mad? Darlin', are you alright?"
My eyes drop from his, and I stare at the ground. I raise my hands to the collar of my shirt, awkwardly opening the buttons without looking up. The wet fabric laying open over my bra, I slide the shirt down my arms and drop it onto the floor. Still refusing to look up, my hands start shaking as I untie the drawstring on my muddy skirt. In a blur of movement that I don't see, Law is in front of me, holding my hands still. "What are you doing?" I halfheartedly attempt to pull my hands from his. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring up at me until I meet his eyes. I chew my lip, and gently pull one of my hands free. Placing it on the back of his neck, I bring my face to his, my mouth to his, and kiss him with as much passion as I can fabricate. His accedes, and I use the distraction to shimmy my skirt down my hips to join my shirt. He pulls back and I see the hunger in his eyes, how he's holding back. "You don't have to do this, darlin'" I take both of his hands, drawing them around me in an embrace. Without thinking, I climb onto his lap. Now, there's a tremor in his hands as they press lightly into my hips. "I don't -have- to do anything. I want to." His lips part, as if to argue further, and I interrupt him with another kiss. He groans into my mouth and pulls me farther onto the bed, rolling me onto my back. Law claws at my remaining garments, and I'm saved the trouble of removing my own clothes and his. I physically respond the best I can, using his fire and passion to numb my mind into a fog as the night turns to teeth, tongue and hands.

~~~~

The room is quiet and dark. My clothes long since forgotten on the floor, I'm suddenly over aware of my nakedness. I pull the covers up to my shoulders and roll over to face the door. Law shifts slightly, his body close to mine, but not touching. Sunrise must be near, and I'm shamed to feel grateful that he'll be losing consciousness before me. I start to relax, mistaking his silence for sleep.
"I love you." His soft voice makes my body tense in a way that I pray he doesn't notice. I bury my face deep into the comforter. After a few minutes of silence, I speak one dreaded syllable, muffled by the blanket.
"Why?"
He doesn't respond right away, but draws closer. I can feel the breath from his words in my hair.
"Because I know who you are under the crazy. Beautiful, and fierce." 
I don't even realize that I'm shaking my head in dissent until I feel his hand stilling the movement. I squeeze my eyes shut. He doesn't know what he's talking about. I'm weak. A monster. "There's too much dark."
His voice drags a bit, as if he's fighting the oncoming torpor just to spew this fiction. "I want your dark. I know the light underneath it."
I pull the comforter from my face, repeating my words from earlier. "You're out of your fucking mind." I hate that beneath the bewilderment and denial, there's this spark of something in my chest that makes me desire something I probably can't feel. He chuckles a little from behind me.
"Maybe I am, darlin'. Doesn't change anything." He pulls the covers down slightly, his fingertips grazing the skin on my back and shoulders. When he speaks again, his voice lacks the humor it had just a moment ago, but is rife with gentleness. "You scars run deep. Even the ones I can't see." My brow furrows, and I find myself wanting to draw away from his touch. "I know I can't fix them, but I want to make them hurt...less. I want to try." A slight growl creeps into his tone. "If I didn't suspect that you already did it, I'd like to tear the person that did this to you into unrecognizable shreds." 
Despite the sensitive subject matter, his soft touch lulls me into a sense of security. Is he strong enough? I cut that thought off, refusing to entertain the notion that there could be a happy ending for me. His hand stills, coming to a stationary rest on my side. He's quiet, cold and finally asleep. Clenching the covers to my chest, I stare blankly into the dark room. Fighting the pull of sleep myself, I speak aloud to the silence. "I'll only hurt you. I can't not. There's nothing in me to love." I'm already making plans in my head, even as I drift into unconsciousness. "...sorry you're too stupid to realize that."

I wake up before full nightfall, taking advantage of his heavy slumber to gather my few belongings. My mind is unusually clear and quiet as I stealthily move about the house. Slipping into Obfuscate, I'm off of the property and out of Law's life before he even fully wakes for the night.