Do you really love me?

No doubt if you had stayed for a moment longer, your life would have been cut short. Your face was horrendously bruised. You had two black eyes and a bloody nose all from the same session with your proclaimed lover. Although your treatment could be called nothing short of abuse.

"Love is love" said he, "Everybody has different forms of expressing love, why can't you see how much I love you?"

But you doubted the years worth of scars on your back, on your arms, your face, and on your mind were meant to be loving.

Those scars, the psychological scars and the mental ones, would no doubt take years, or even decades into your already old life. You already had issues with your brain, from the same man nevertheless.

Years ago, he drove into the record shop you worked in and butting one of your eyes out. While caring for you as a punishment instead of dealing jail time, he shot you through the windshield and onto the curb, jabbing out your other eye in the process and messing up your brain a hell of a lot more.

You didn't need more trauma to add onto the psychological trauma you had already endured for so, so long with him. And yet you found yourself almost drawn to it, because he loved you, did he not?

Sometimes he loved you, sometimes he loved you maybe a bit too much, but love is love, right? He was misunderstood, you told yourself. Misunderstood from years worth of his own a̶b̶u̶s̶e̶ love from his own parents, and from years of juvenile detention he spent alone and planning. No doubt he loved you, maybe he was just a bit too extreme for you. But sometimes he wasn't. Sometimes he was tender, caring towards your needs and loving of you in your entirety; your body, your scars, your forever jacked up brain. Sometimes he drank and came home crying, where you would hold each other and cry together in silence until your roommates came back home.

Other times he came home drunk and let his anger out onto you. You had scars on your neck, from where his sharp, chipped nails dug into the soft and tender flesh of your throat and the back of your neck. You had lasting imprints on your throat from where his hands fit so snug around it, clasping with just the right pressure to make your mouth foam and your airway cut off.

You were tired of it, but it was just his way of showing affection, right?

You had scars on your arms from where he grabbed you and yanked you back into the house when you were going somewhere because he's possessive of you and he's distrustful and he knows thinks you're going somewhere to cheat on him or to report him to the police. You had scars on your arms from where he dug his nails into them when you would fight back. His sharp, chipped nails digging into your tender skin and scarring it for lord knows how long. You had a bite mark on your neck from where he 'claimed you'.

It was bleeding for a while. You wanted to cover it up, but he never let you. He never let you cover it up with makeup, with the collar of your shirt or with a scarf of some kind. He wanted everyone to know you were his. His, his, his, forever and always.

He loved you. So much, he did.

You had scars on your thighs and abdomen, from where he would claw at you and bite you and litter you with disgusting, ugly marks because everybody needed to know who you belonged to. You had scars on your back from where he whipped and abused it. Horrible, nasty and long-lasting scars that would no doubt last for years. They would never go away, you knew, not for a long time.

The final straw? He carved his name into your back.

You were screaming, crying, begging him to stop. But he loved you, and if you didn't accept his love, you didn't love him back. But you did love him. You loved him very much. He thought your sobbing and choking over your own breathing was your way of saying you loved him back but no, no, no, you don't know what's wrong with him why won't it stop please please please stop you can't take anymore- "Words can't express how much I love you," he said. His toxic words echoed in your mind, "Be grateful I'm showing it to you in the first place, faceache,"

You were ugly. You were beaten and torn to pieces. And now you were contemplating going back and living with your mother as you healed. But how would you get out? You barely made it out of the apartment alive. Your arms stung with new and old scratches and scrapes and hurtful things you didn't want to even think about right at that moment.

Blood trickled down your face from your nostrils. Tears welled up in your eyes, although you were practically numb to the pain by now.

Having gone through this several times over already, in the 3 months you had been together [you cut it short a day ago, which has sparked his outbreak in the first place] he had scarred you physically, but most of your scars remained mentally. No doubt those would last for the rest of your days.

You tripped over your own feet, choking on a sob and forcing yourself to stand back up and bring yourself back into reality.

London, at night, wasn't the place you wanted to be in right now. It was filled with dangerous people, as was any other city in the world, but nevertheless you disliked the atmosphere. You couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, yet you pushed on. You knew he wasn't following you. He was far too drunk to silently stalk you through the dark streets of London. At night let alone.

The thought that he could be right behind you, or in any of the passing cars, didn't go away no matter how much you wanted it to. You fumbled for the bottle of pills in your pocket and tore it from its place, opening the lid and hastily gulping down 3; your throat hurt afterwards but it would go away soon.

You pushed on, holding back tears and sobs that you desperately wanted to let out.

~

Sitting happily on the couch of your mother's living room, you were pressed into her side as she rambled on. Your eyes had dark bags under them from lack of sleep, but you were still somehow hanging on to the thin string that held your eyes open despite the painful need to sleep poking at your head in the form of a headache that pulsed through the veins down your neck.

"-and do you remember when we were at the amusement park that one summer? And you stuffed your face with cotton candy until you had a horrible stomach ache?" Your mother laughed next to you, full of energy.

Truthfully, it was a miracle how she managed to be so happy all the time. No, you remember. Ever since she lost the lives of children she would have loved to have, she fell into a deep depression and antidepressants helped her to stay on her feet all the time. Even then, it was a miracle she was able to stand up straight without buckling under the pressure.

You laughed along with her, although it was weak and forced, if anything. Her arm draped along your back and brushed against painful scars and wounds that were still open and bleeding to no end. You had to bite your tongue to keep from choking on your tears.

"Are you sure you're okay, Stu? You've been silent, and you haven't spoken much since you got here," She asked genuinely, tilting your chin up so you could meet her eyes. She looked over you bit by bit, stopping at your neck. And at that instant you knew you were fucked.

You pulled your head away from her and gave the most genuine smile you could force; it was a horrible and obviously fake smile. She seemed to see right through it.

"No, ma, I promise 'm fine," You managed, rubbing at your neck bashfully. She raised an eyebrow, speaking sternly, "Stuart, I can tell when you're lying, I'm your mother," You gulped heavily, tears welling up in your eye sockets.

~

"I told you he was bad luck, baby," She murmured, petting your head in her lap. You shook violently from crying - sobbing so hard you felt yourself lose your grasp on what you were talking about as you let it all out. You were hyperventilating, but no- no stop, get ahold of yourself and get up and take another pill. Take another pill take another one: you'll feel better soon.

All of the years of abuse, torture, horrible treatment spilled out of your mouth in giant, harsh waves. You were sobbing, you were shaking as if you were in freezing temperatures, and most importantly you were losing your mind.

"Stuart, honey, I don't want you going back to him, okay?" She gently moved your head to the side, so you could look her in the eyes properly. Yet you didn't want to. Your eyes were ugly, horribly scarred and gone. You were the definition of hideous. The scars that littered your body like painful freckles were as hideous and troublesome as something could be. You hated how disgusting you felt, although it was nothing new. It was an emotion often felt by those at rock bottom, scarred and broken.

He often told you that you were beautiful with your scars. That they added much needed character to your boring attire and overall look. Was what he took from you not enough to suffice for his sadistic needs? Were you not already beautiful enough, with his brand in your back, and your eyes removed?

You didn't believe him, for when you looked at yourself in the mirror, you were revolted. You couldn't believe what had become of you, and you continuously told yourself that you should have listened to your mother. It was too late for that. You were scarred, beaten, bruised, all by the man your mother warned you about all those years ago. Smile through the pain, the horrible appearances, Stuart. Keep it together and push on. Take another pill.

"I should have cut you off from him the moment you woke up from that coma," She continued, voice shaking as well as her hands as she tenderly touched your aching bottom eyelid with her fingertips. "Your- Your beautiful eyes, Stuart. He took your eyes, baby," She said almost in disbelief, as if the past 20 or so years he'd spent with limited vision has never happened. As if you lost your eyes, and along with that went the hopes of a decent vision, only earlier that day. She had to bite her tongue to keep from breaking out into tears then and there.

"Stuart, honey. He took your eyes. He took so much from you," You met her gaze, tears of your own forming.

Your mother inhaled deeply, and did the same when she exhaled. A nervous smile crossed her face and for a minute, you were afraid she would do something rash. Perhaps that was the mental damage speaking. But no. She loved you, did she not? She was your mother, sure, she loved you. You braced for the worst.

"Let's get you cleaned up, baby," She whispered and you nodded.

You sat up, wincing as some of the scars on your back opened back up from being stretched past the point the tissue covered.

It took a minute to steady yourself when you stood. You were extremely weak, as you had walked all the way from Kong Studios to your mother's house only last night.

It wasn't something you couldn't handle, sure. But it was still a bit difficult to manage. With the help of your mother, you made it to the restroom only a room away. Your shirt was removed, and tears spilled down your red and bruised cheeks as if you were a young child who couldn't control his tears.

You sat on the edge of the tub and your mother got to work evaluating the damage done. The scars on your chest and arms weren't that bad. Sure, you had nail-marks down your chest, to your abdomen from that one time you were getting up to go use the restroom one night while laying with him. You tried to get up- he raked his sharp nails down your chest desperately to keep you with him for as long as possible.

You stayed in that bed for the rest of the night, needless to say. You squeezed your eyes shut, allowing another few tears to fall down your face as you silently wept. The memories of each scar - you could remember them in such detail it about gave you a panic attack just thinking about it.

"Stuart, honey, it's okay. He can't hurt you here," You looked desperately up at your mother as she cupped your wet cheeks.

"He's goin' to find me, ma. He always does," You protested lightly. Fear was apparent in your voice. You had never learned how to properly hide it, even with the years you spent under his grasp. You had always opted for the safety of an empty room to provide shelter, rather than someone who actually cared about you.

You didn't want Mudz to go to prison. Because you loved him. But you truthfully didn't know how much more of this you could take before you wouldn't wake up again.

It was only a matter of time, you knew, before you snapped and shut down, allowing him to do as he pleased, and falling into a horribly depressed state worse than the one you were alreadyin.

You had lost so much blood, so much patience and innocence, so much feeling in your body, and confidence went with it.

"No, he won't. Disable your phone so he can't track you," She replied patiently, gently scrubbing the scars specifically on your lower back. That's where it hurt the most, so she figured it would be best to start there. "I'll keep you safe, dear," She promised

It was an empty promise, you knew, for there was little she of all people could do against someone like Mudz.

He drove a truck into the record shop you worked in. Who's to say he couldn't do it to your mother's house out of rage? He knew where she lived, of course he did. He had met her time and time before, so of course he knew where she lived.

You stayed silent, allowing your mother to scrub the scars on your lower back before anything else. You could hardly move your back, or your body for that matter, but you complied with your mother's wishes when she wanted you to turn this way or that.

You didn't want to burden her with anything, so you ignored the aching of your empty stomach, deciding that instead, you would go out in the dawn light and maybe go to McDonalds for breakfast.

Your mouth watered at the thought alone. You couldn't recall the most recent time you had eaten McDonalds. The old restaurant was a source of joy for you, as you had gone there many times as a child. Though, he never allowed you to go out for food, his paranoid ass insisting that you were a lying, cheating scum of a human. If you could even be counted as a human at this point.

~

You sat, face in your hands, shaking as you stared blankly down at the floor. Tears rolled down your bruised cheeks. You could hear the loud ringing in your ears over the television that played in the background. The show was only really on for background noise, as you had found it horribly painful when there wasn't anything going on outside of your head.

Your hands and arms shook, and you picked anxiously at skin on your arms. Your leg thumped against the floor no matter what you did to try and deter it.

You forgot your pills back at that old studio. You were going insane without them. Your mind ran at 100 miles per hour without them, and you fidgeted and twitched constantly. The levels of discomfort you felt couldn't even be described, with or without a focused mind.

You picked at your nails, at skin on your arms, at your eyelashes, at any lose thread on your sweater. At one point, your fingers had started to bleed from the abuse to their nails. It hurt. Oh it hurt. But you couldn't stop yourself from absolutely destroying yourself. Did you love yourself? No. No you didn't. So why were you hurting yourself like this?

It's different than what he did, no no no, you don't love yourself, that's why you're destroying yourself without his love, why you're falling apart and bursting at the seams without him.

~ (You sat on the cold floor of his bedroom, face flushed as you coughed up a storm. You could feel his hands around your neck, his nails digging into the tender flesh and leaving marks. He was hissing out hostile words at you, and you tried to protest against them, but all that came out was a strangled, choked noise that sounded like you were drowning.

"You dirty fucking whore," He spat into your face, and you felt drool dribbling down your chin from where you were being violently choked. Your hands moved up to grasp at the older man's wrists, but they didn't move from their place on your neck. "You think I don't know what you're up to?! I wouldn't dream of letting you out, not after you cheated on every partner you had before me!" He hissed, his grip tightening around your windpipe. A shameful blush came to your face, and you squeezed your eyes shut as if that'd help get the horrible horrible stains off your cheeks.

You choked, beginning to actually struggle now as you felt yourself slipping away from consciousness. You kicked at him and choked and thrashed beneath him. The words went straight to your head and you knew he was right; that was how you lost every single woman in your life. Well, except her, but that was his fault entirely.

He let go of your neck, shaking his head as you gasped for air and struggled to regain that of it you had lost. You glared up at him as if it was the worst thing he had done. Your eyes bore holes into his skull, and he seemed taken aback by it.

He grabbed your jaw and forced you to look into his eyes, snarling into your face. Fear overcame you, but you poorly kept up your defiant act. Your neck burned and your jaw burned from where he harshly held you, but you persisted.

"Who the FUCK do you think you are?!" He barked, spit coating your face thickly. You could smell the alcohol abuse on his breath, and growled at him, kicking and scratching and biting at him.

You tumbled on the floor, and at one point you could have heard the door open, but eventually you came up with an unconscious Mudz, bleeding arms, and a fractured, fearful mind. Once he woke up, you should have been long gone anyway.

It was a dead giveaway where you were going, however, and you choked on words that wouldn't form, grabbing a black shirt and loose jeans. You could feel a bottle of pills in the pocket of the jeans. They hadn't been washed in- god knows how long, but they would suffice.

You said your goodbyes to your band members, begging them and fucking praying to god that they wouldn't rat you out. They saw how he treated you, they knew how bad it was getting, and surely they wouldn't support him any more than you did.

With that, you left and ran until the dry air in your lungs felt like your lungs were exploding.)

~

You didn't sleep last night, not for a second. The painkillers in your pockets didn't help anything except your burning and bleeding fingers, and the only thing you could do at this point was sit and watch the television with your bleeding fingers and thumping foot and twitching limbs and running mind.

You were going insane.

~

The first hints of morning light peeked in through drawn blinds, and you were positively tired. Perhaps mother had sleeping pills or melatonin in the cupboards? It wouldn't hurt to try, but that was overstepping your boundaries.

You glanced in the direction of the restroom and bit your lip anxiously. Surely she had something in there. . .

You shook your head. This wasn't your house to snoop around in, you knew. What if she had something secret to hide in there and you came across it. Wouldn't it seem like you were snooping around in her stuff? That's overstepping boundaries, even if she was your mother, it wasn't okay in any sense.

You groaned and forced your head down on the arm of the couch and threw the covers over your freezing cold body, shoving your eyes closed and begging sleep to overcome you.

It didn't, long story short.

You laid on the couch painfully tired until your mother came to wake you in the morning.