Author's Note: Hey, guys! I came up with an idea for another Cirque fic and wrote out a prologue and a first chapter, so here goes the prologue… I'm not sure if I'll actually continue writing this, but if you guys like it I'll put out more for ya:D

Read and review, please? :D

Prologue

A man put me in a death grip with one hand snaked against my waist, clutching my back against his body and restraining me from making any movement. With his other arm, he was holding a knife to my throat. I glared at his reflection in the window of the building we were in and commanded him, "Do it. Kill me. I don't fucking care."

I heard him grunt, and for a brief moment, the pressure on my neck increased. I closed my eyes and let out a deep breath, ashamed of the way I was about to die. I hadn't even bothered trying to fight back. Is that how my people would remember me? A coward who died at the hands of a vampire without a single word?

As soon as that thought had passed through my mind, I found breathing a lot easier. I heard the clatter of the knife falling against the floor. I stared at my captor's reflection in shock— he looked resigned, if not outright upset. He shoved his feelings to the side, though, as he roughly shoved me down so that I was on my knees. He readjusted our positions so that he was holding my hands together and he was crouching down in front of me. His brown eyes bore holes into my red ones as he growled roughly, "Cooperate. Maybe then I'll let you live."

I awoke next to Steve as per usual. I gave what I hoped to be his sleeping form a hate-filled glare as I began to get up. I had barely lifted my body from the bed when a hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me back down to a sitting position. Steve's eyes flashed open and he glared at me before informing me, "Don't even try it. You know better than that."

I scowled at him angrily and retorted uselessly, "What the fuck do you think I am; your slave?" He gave me a look that clearly expressed the answer we both knew to be true: Yes. I was, in fact, his slave.

Fuck that. Fuck Steve Leonard.

I yanked my arm out of his iron grip and snarled at him, "I'm going to get some coffee. Is that alright, sir?" I didn't wait to hear his answer before getting up and moving away. He reached for my arm to pull me back down again, but this time I was expecting it and got out of the way before strolling over to the kitchen. I knew that he would soon be after me— after all, he was the boss in this relationship, and I had just defied him—, but today I didn't care in the least. I put the coffee grinds into the filter and turned on the machine, just as I did almost every morning.

Right when the machine sprung to life and began to flow water through it, I found myself being thrown to the floor by my oh-so-lovely boyfriend. "What the fuck did I say?" he demanded angrily. He hated it when I exhibited any sort of free will.

I stared into his eyes which, for whatever reason, didn't match the typical vampaneze's red color. I put on the most innocent face I could muster. "That you love me, you're sorry, and will never lay another finger on me?" I guessed, my bitter sarcasm hidden under my act.

His scowl deepened as he habitually raised his fist to hit me. He then lowered it when he realized that I was expecting him to do something of the sort, he instead spat at me, "I should've known you'd throw that shit back in my face." He scowled at me before adding, "You know what, I honestly don't care anymore. Go do whatever the fuck you want!" He stormed out of the hotel room; probably to go off and murder some innocent woman.

Again.

For any of you guys are wondering, I'm Victoria— Vic or Vicky for short. I'm physically about eighteen years old, and I'm actually about twenty-eight. In case you haven't guessed, I'm a half-vampaneze. I was blooded by a man named Murlough, who claimed that I was, and quote, 'pretty enough' for him. He turned me about eleven years ago, and died a year after that. Well… technically, he was murdered— a vampire killed him during our stay in the sewers of a city. I can't honestly say that I minded when he died; he'd been horrible, abusive, clinically insane, a bad teacher, a pedophile, and terribly annoying. I was probably only about four months into my apprenticeship whit him when he drank some bad blood and went completely mad. Needless to say, I had been thrilled upon discovering he would never come back.

A year or two after Murlough's death, I met Steve. I've been with the son of a bitch for almost eight years. All was well at first, but as time went on he grew more and more vicious. Within three years, he'd magically transformed into the bipolar asshole that I now knew. I say bipolar because he'll be the sweetest guy in the world for about a week, but then he'd turned around and bite the second your guard was down. The moment his mood went south, everything would change back to normal, and I would be his pummeling bag. He's abusive, needy, and controlling… And I love him with every fiber of my being. We have a very complicated relationship, and you'd have to be in it to understand it.

…What am I saying? I don't even understand our relationship, which leads us back to the question I keep wondering, myself: Why the hell am I with him?

Try as I might, I can't find the answer to that question. He beat me, toyed with my emotions, and (more than likely) cheated on me. For all I knew, he hated me! But through it all, I stayed with him. I loved him, and I always came back. No matter what he'd done, I would look in his eyes and believe every apology like it was the first time I'd heard it.

Babe, it'll never happen again. I love you. I'll get better; I promise. Please come back, babe. For me?

I had heard that line almost every other night throughout the five years Steve had been abusing me. And I don't mean the general idea of that statement, either— I mean word for word, exactly that line. It was rehearsed, it was fake, and it was over-used… but I bought it every time. I refused to believe that my Steve was evil. I refused to believe that he would never change, and I held onto all of the times he'd ever told me he loved me.

But before I begin to weave my tale for you, let's make this perfectly clear: He was, he wouldn't, and he didn't.

A/N: So? What do you think? Should I continue?

Thank you so much for your input! :D