*ROOOOAAAARRRR. I AM THE GREAT MARLOWE!* (note the sarcasm) ok no... i was thinking about random stuff after my baseball team lost and i realized that I sympathize with Beckett more than Castle. why? well maybe my wife + writers block on my book + plus not taking my medication (depression only, i'm not crazy people, just sad) and i felt... i dunno connected to something she might have gone through...

"Castle, do you have a second can we talk?"

He blurted something about something and dinner.

"Wow, four dates in three days!"

"Yeah! Why?" He wanted her so bad now. He puffed his chest and braced for to tell the truth.

"Eh, she just... just doesn't seem like you're type."

It was true. Yet...

"Well she's fun and... uncomplicated. Think that's what my life needs right now." He flashed that killer grin but it wasn't sincere. It was a facial middle finger to her. She scowled the whole time he was going away from her.

Yes, she picked her phone and it was reflexive to her. The number at the top of her call screen was Mr. Scotlandyard himself. She buried her blush before it happened and inhaled to push it deeper in her center. Her stomach was a wreck and she knew she couldn't handle food. She put the phone back away and as she stood up she caught Castle glaring at her.

She had a few more words to say and she was going let flusies, bimbo's, hussies or fake tramps distract him anymore. She grabbed her coat and headed down the stairwell.

That sonofabitch isn't getting away.

Clomping speedily down the steps she knew she had catching up to do. About the second floor down she had the sense she was already way to late. She took out her phone and speed dialed 2. She heard the ring. Nothing happened though. Racing down the steps she felt a snag on her heels and she tumbled head over heels down the next flight. Gasping for air she soon realized he was getting away. The bruises would fade. Her heartache would be there forever.

Fuck this.

She began texting: Hlp. Fell down a flight of stairs 5 floor. Pls call.

She laid the phone down. Lying on her back stairing up at the bottom of the 6th floor she exhaled a breath of resignation. This would be her fate. A cold, hollow existence. She wasted time telling him how she felt. So like anyone that has regrets she imagined telling him. How could she meet anyone else that was like him? He would talk to her because he wanted to know what she thought. Not just to make conversation between sex. He respected her. Like seriously respected her. Like listened and never tried to solve her problems unless she cued him to help find one.

Then she realized that because he respected her there was never an honest chance, yes there was innuendo and flashes but they never had a chance.

She also realized it was all her fault. She knew everything. How he felt about her and what he wanted.

She rolled to her side and moaned a desperate groan. Castle would love the metaphor of the situation. Strong woman laying crippled by her heel on the cold stairwell floor. He would probably change some details to make more symbolic. Maybe give her a heart attack. Broken heart would fit perfectly.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to let it all out. All of the tension and flirting and great memories and bad memories and... just... everything. Her mom being murdered and her dad emotionally abadoning her and leaving her to try and find her way. Her guilt for all the shitty things she did to other people while she tried to numb the pain of her hurt. The drinking. The drugs. The nice boys she took advantage of. The bad boys she let abuse her. All of this is why she felt so broken. Good people don't do these things, she use to reflect in her younger years this very thought quite often so she, in essence, had programmed her cognitive facilities to accept this. Something always nagged at her though. Hindsight being what it is, it was mostly likely her subconscious repeating messages her parents had said to her about giving people second chances and forgiveness and all the gibberish and nonsense she would feel creep up in her head.

She had a good upbringing. Loving parents, bright future and then her mother died. Literally. Then her father died. Emotionally and in a bottle. Then she tried to die but something wouldn't let her. Something, for the lack of a better word, good was keeping her alive.

She wanted to cry so badly. Then she remembered why she decided to never cry again...

00000000000000

"Bitch where's my motha fuckin' money!" Her pimp hit her really hard this time. He stopped being her boyfriend a while back. Like when he shot her up with heroine. It was a glorious high. Like sex with God's face. She didn't appreciate being raped while she was out of her mind and she sure as fuck didn't like her realization when he blew his load in her ass that she had come undone. Getting raped then having the shit kicked out of you when you're an alleyway junky high (she wasn't the junky yet but she was close) has a way of really settling in your reptilian brain. He was so nice in the beginning. Wanting to party and share everything with her. He seemed like she was exactly what she needed to just plain stop feeling all the bad things. All the synapse in her brain that linked to sadness seemed to reroute around him. Of course, it was most likely the drugs.

She decided that putting herself out there that way to pay him back was wrong. She wanted to talk to him. Maybe go to night school and a job...Then he hit her. Started to scream things about money. Put drugs in her and then raped her. This is what she had done to herself. Her pain from mommy and daddy disappearing on her... all of that love and goodness was gone... all of the sinful, gashing, abysmal attempts to fill that need in her developing emotional, physical and psycological body was being filled with trash.

She was high as a kite flying another kite. She had suffered a fate worse than death by this monster of a man lurching over her screaming like a firey dragon about something as petty as cash and she could only see red. Hear the word fight and as his hand came down she raised her arm to block and his blow hit her arm but nothing else. All that was in her sight was gaping maw of an opening from his pectoral muscles to his knees and she lauched herself into his torso with all of her might and heard a grunt to suggest something had changed in him. And her. Some how she just knew the air was knocked out of him and he was losing his balance. She grabbed the back of the legs. The same back of the legs she grabbed to pull his cock down her mouth and gag her to his delight. Then her world felt right as he went down and she was on top. She was on top. The only thing she could think to do was obliterate his face. That handsome, rugged face that penetrated her infantile defenses.

There was nothing left of her innocence. She was going to kill this fucker.

He had seen some MMA for sure as he rocked his body to try and throw her off balance and regain the upper hand but she was willing to sacrifice her body. She gave enough on his sway to allow herself to remain on top and let her knees scrape on the glass and the gravel and filth and muck...

Then she saw a brick.