A/N: Fair warning, this is kind of a dark!fic and contains a few sensitive topics. That in mind, read on...and let me know if I did an okay job with the darkness. (I'm not a big dark!fic person so I'm very nervous about this.)

Jane didn't think very highly of herself. She didn't even think of herself as "Jane." In her mind, she was "Rizzoli." Whenever she made a dumbass move, she chastised herself, Rizzoli, you idiot. She answered her phone, "Rizzoli." She was "Rizzoli." Not "Jane."

She did not know why this was. She only knew that she was just "Rizzoli." Unworthy of a pretty first name like "Jane."

"Jane" was too personal. "Jane" felt too human. It was too informal for the relationship she had with herself.

If Jane was being honest with herself – which she did not often do – she hated herself. She barely even respected herself. She could not relax. She could not cope with strong emotions. She could not let down her guard or she would be broken again.

Hoyt had really ruined her life. She had already been messed-up enough before meeting him, unloving of herself to the point where instead of mentally beating herself up she was physically cutting her own skin to ease the pain. Ironically, after Hoyt's scalpels pierced her hands, she stopped taking razors to her wrists. She did not love herself any more after Hoyt. It just felt wrong to disrespect herself in the way that Hoyt had. That was her explanation for herself, though she didn't really know why she stopped. She only felt too guilty after the endorphins had run their brief course through her system from the most recent episode of self-torture. She knew that if anyone found out that she harmed herself they would be upset and hurt. She cared for others even though she did not care for herself.

For whatever reason it was that she stopped her habit of self-mutilation, she was proud. There were not many things Jane was proud of about herself. Becoming a cop was one of them. And quitting her addiction – because that was what it was, an addiction – to self-harm was another.

That's not to say that Jane didn't still hurt herself mentally every day. Before Hoyt, Jane hadn't loved herself. He ruined her life in the aspect that, after he was through with her, she no longer had much respect for herself. She was drawn to Hoyt like a moth to flame and that would never go away. She could not even kill him when given the chance. She asked herself why every day, and the next time she met up with Hoyt he asked her too. She had no answer. She hated him with every fiber of her being. But she was attracted to him in some sick way. It was an addiction, just as cutting her skin had been before she met Hoyt.

Maybe Hoyt hadn't cured her of self-harm.

Maybe Hoyt had replaced self-harm.

Jane didn't like to think about it. Jane didn't like to think about a lot of things. Avoidance was something that Jane was very good at. She avoided thinking about Hoyt any more than she had to. She avoided thinking about herself any more than she had to. And recently she had been avoiding thinking about Maura any more than she had to. Her friendship with Maura was, all things considered, the healthiest relationship Jane had ever had with someone. Somehow, though, this friendship was the cause of most of Jane's hatred for herself. It wasn't Maura's fault. Maura was the best person Jane had ever met. Jane wished that Maura would see that she was too good for Jane and leave her. But Jane was glad that Maura stayed. Maura was the only person who even begun to understand Jane. Jane didn't love that Maura considered Jane her equal. Maura was so much better than Jane in every way: class and beauty, on a superficial level, but also integrity and compassion and honesty and bravery and wisdom and everything that Jane wished she were.

Maura once said to Jane that Jane wasn't her type because Jane couldn't relax.

Jane had taken this hard. On the outside she'd defended herself, saying she was relaxing right then. It was in a way true because her times with Maura were the times in which she was the most relaxed. But in her head, Jane had gone over it over and over. She could not relax. She was constantly on guard. She could not be broken again.

She really wished she could let her guard completely down for Maura. She loved Maura, more than she'd care to admit out loud, more than she'd care to admit to herself. It was something she spent a lot of time avoiding. But in her heart, or whatever organ it was that harbored all her sick emotions, she wanted nothing more than to relax in Maura's arms.

But then she could get broken. She could be hurt. She would be hurt. Another of her wishes would come true, and Maura would realize that Jane was not good enough for her and leave. Jane wished all her wishes would come true. But she wished none of them would. She wished she could make up her mind on what she wanted – Maura's love, or Maura's realization that she could do better. She wished she could love herself enough to stop making wishes and make a decision instead.

But if wishes were horses.

One of these days she would tell Maura all of this. Somehow she always told Maura something she swore to never tell anyone. Maura was the only one who knew that Jane used to cut herself. Maura was the person who knew that Jane was afraid of Hoyt. No one else knew. No one else saw the vulnerable side of Jane. Jane had to be brave for everybody else. Jane had to be a rock so no one worried.

Maura was the only one who knew that Jane was not invincible.

Jane wanted to be a rock. She thought of herself as a rock most of the time, when she was avoiding the fact that she was human.

Jane wouldn't let anyone hurt her. Hoyt had done it and Hoyt had become an addiction. Jane couldn't let anyone else in like that. Maura was it. Maura was the only one who saw all of Jane's external scars, though she didn't know the extent of the internal damage yet.

For everyone else, Jane covered up her scars. She uncomfortably rubbed the scars on her palms from Hoyt. People knew not to let their gazes linger on her hands. Maybe they could see that it made her feel uncomfortable having been broken. No one ever got close enough to see the criss-crossing scratches on Jane's wrists. She hardly spared a thought for them. She did not cover them up which was probably why no one ever noticed or said anything about them.

After all, it was a shame if another person had broken her.

But if Jane broke herself all the time?

That was normal.

A/N Please let me know what you think.