"Don't help me..." You say, looking away from me and down at your lap. You look so pathetic at this point, your hands fondling each other, your sweet eyes blank, bruises on your body, and salty tears at the corners of your eyes that threaten to spill if you stop biting your rosy red lip. "I'm broken..." You say, stilling your movements and not even looking at me. I'm biting back a sarcastic comment about you not even looking at me as you continue to do so.

I already know what you're expecting of me. You're expecting me to deny it, to call you pathetic, stupid, and an attention whore. You're expecting insult after insult. Sometimes, I even think you crave it. But of course, when I'll ask, you'll say 'Why would I want that?'. And I wouldn't be able to answer that, because even if I expect it, that rarely means I understand it. I don't even think you know, either.

Then, you're expecting me to huff like the spoiled brat I know I am and run away, locking the door of my room behind me once my long hair is all the way in. Then, I'll hear it. You'll fall to your pretty little bruises knees and cry. Not just cry, though. You'll sob, scream, shriek, laugh insanely, wail, and whimper until I'm blue in the face whispering pathetic apologies you'll never hear, and you're numb and no longer feeling even the slightest prickling of pain for the rest of the day. And it breaks my heart thinking about it.

I know you're also expecting something else. You're expecting me to survey you for any bruises or flinches. If you have bruises, you've been beaten, so I can settle for yelling at you. If you flinch, you've been yelled at and taunted, so I can settle for letting my rage at everything in my life on you. Or, if you have neither, I would do both. I do feel guilt, gallons of it, actually, once I realize you're not moving, but you know why I don't stop. I don't stop because I physically and mentally can't hit the brakes on my rage. It comes with being a spoiled brat since creation.

Then, you'll cough, a symbol you're indeed alive, then I get angry since you scared me for a good 15 minutes, and I go at it again, almost sure you won't make it out of this one. Yet somehow, I'll always know you'll make it out. You really are the strongest person I know if you can deal with school bullies and my personality in general.

And yet, as I beat you, I always know why you don't kick my ass. You're pretty strong and fast. I've seen you in Karate class, so I wouldn't have even been able to land a smack on you if you didn't want violence. You stay still, almost get yourself killed, and smile slightly when a bone breaks in you because you want them and me to break you. You want your body just as broken as you think your sanity, spirit, and voice is, and you wish you could do it yourself, so you let others do it for you.

You really are stronger than you give yourself credit for.

However, today, you have both, and you look like someone threw you into a hurricane. Your usually neat short hair is jagged and cut and torn, like someone took scissors and their own bare hands to it, your normally unblemished skin is lined with bruises and angry hickeys, your wrists and the sides of your mouth are lined with redness, like someone gagged and tied you up, your skirt is skewed, claw marks line your thighs and arms, your boots are scuffed, your top is unbuttoned, and your socks are torn. Your ears also bled and you flinched a lot. So, it appears you got both, and something worse...

They've gone too far this time, but we never established a protocol where you got both and worse. I didn't know what to do in this situation, so I just stared at you, trying to comprehend how they thought going this far was acceptable, or how you'd let this happen.

"I want to break...I want to die..."You repeated over and over, and it took everything I had in me to not call my friend and have her take care of you while I took care of those jerks who did this to you. I know who did it, too. It was kinda hard not to figure it out.

Years of torment at home from your family, from me, and at school made you weak. It got a sledgehammer of sadness and depression and broke down you happiness walls and you strength to ignore them. Then, those emotions grabbed you by the wrists, legs, and hair, much like I'd witnessed your parents doing, and threw you onto a hard wooden table, getting a table of self-loathing, regret, self-pity, and suicidal thoughts, and proceeded to slam it onto you, officially breaking the strong and happy girl I used to know and killing her horribly, taking a broken and defeated girl and putting it into your empty shell of a body.

I'm crying inside, and a bit outside. just thinking about the girl I used to hug, pamper, cry with, smile with, train with, shop with, and sing with. I want her back so much it hurts me mentally and internally. I miss that girl so much it hurts me both ways.

"I'm broken...You can't fix me..."You repeat over and over, and I surprise you. I grab your hand and pull you into a hug. "I know..."I whisper into your ear, and your head falls limply onto my shoulder, tears from before leaking onto my blouse, but I don't care about that right now. I care about you. "I know they broke you, I broke you, and I know they pushed you over the edge, but maybe I can grab that girl you used to be and pull her back up." I whisper, and you cling to me tightly, full-on crying and whimpering. I just tighten my grip on your waist.

And I meant it...every damn word I told you...Mark my words, I WILL fix and repair you until I get that happy and beautiful girl back...

But I just noticed...

...God, you're so beautiful when you're broken...

Here's a little challenge for Y'all! Whoever guesses which characters I used in this fic will get a story written per their request. Here are the character roles I used!:

1. Broken Girl

2. Spoiled Savior

3. Friend (She's not important, but It'll be more challenging!)

Good Luck!