My name is Amu Hinamori. Twenty-two years old. Pink hair, honey-colored eyes. I'm a singer, a struggling one at that, working at bars and random parties just to get by. Didn't go to college, barely made it through high school.

I live with my boyfriend, Tadase Hotori. Twenty-three years old. Platinum blonde hair, maroon-colored eyes. He's the heir to some big company that I really don't give a damn about. Why he likes me, I have no idea. Hey, he gives me a place to stay, so I should be grateful enough for that.

He takes me to fancy parties that I don't fit in at, trying to make me fit in my putting me in expensive pink dresses that clash with my hair. He pulls me around, from one company exec to another. One hand holds a never-ending glass of wine, sometimes whiskey, and the other is intertwined with mine, only letting go to shake one of those rich bitches hands.

That glass, that never-ending glass, is really never-ending. He can go through three glasses within ten minutes. Sip after endless sip. Sometimes he offers one to me, but I never take it. I swear, no one notices how much he's had.

Except me.

I notice, when we're stumbling out the doorway.

I notice, when I have to struggle to get the car keys out of his pocket. As he fights me, yelling that I'm trying to rape him.

I notice, when I struggle to get him up the stairs and into our apartment. When I struggle to get him to even make it through the door, let alone the couch.

And I especially notice when he wakes up.

It doesn't take that long, maybe ten minutes, for him to wake up. And when he does, my reocurring nightmare begins.

"Amu, come here. Come here, you bitch!"

His eyes, those big, sweet eyes, aren't sweet anymore.

"Can you hear me, dumbass?"

I go. I stand in front him. My knees are shaking, but I doubt he notices.

A wide smile breaks his cold demeanor. He relaxes a bit, clasps his hands onto mine.

"Amu, that dress looks beautiful on you."

He stands up and kisses me. His kisses, when he's like this, aren't warm or sweet. They hold nothing but lust, and maybe even anger. And when he pulls away, eyeing my whole body:

"That dress, Amu, would look so much better, on the floor, right there."

Every time. It happens every time. I shake my head no, every time. I should have learned by now, after so many times, but the fear consumes me. Saying no is the least I can do for myself.

"You dirty bitch. You listen to me!"

But I don't listen.

I never do.

You idiot, Amu. You're such a damn idiot.

And what started with kisses, every damn time, ends with me in bed next to him.

My bare back against the cold, white sheets, staring at the ceiling.

His rough hand, cold and unwelcoming, flat against my stomach.

My lips swollen, my limbs bruised, and tears rolling down my cheeks.

My ow personal hell that I can't get out of.

A/N: So, here I am once again starting a new story. Don't ask me why I'm doing this. I must be crazy, haha. :) The idea popped into my head, and I had to do it. I didn't write much since it's the prologue. There's really more of a story behind it, if you read the first chapter.
That is, if I write another chapter...
Please, do tell me if you want more. I don't want to be writing for nothing!
~Cherry