Dear Diary,

Happy birthday to me!

Not.

I'm officially a woman today in my society's eyes. Old enough to legally smoke, go into most clubs, as long as I stay away from the bars, and even old enough to look at porn and buy it too. Yep, because ninety-nine percent of what I do is motivated by spite and porn… Fantastic. Shouldn't I be more happy today? Shouldn't everything have gone my way? I should have stuffed my face with junk food, cake and ice cream, had fun with the party guests, and followed that up with a long night of doing nothing but thoroughly enjoying myself.

So, why am I sitting here, mascara running down my face with the beginnings of a black eye dimming my vision and aching something fierce? Because, as my luck dictates, I am not allowed to have something called a 'happy birthday'. Of course not. That would be much-too-much to ask for, wouldn't it?

It started out fine – a lovely place rented out, a great DJ, party decorations inside and out. Friends, presents, family. Everything an eighteen year old could want. Oh, and don't forget the spiked punch bowl. Haha! The DJ happened to be a good friend of mine, and damn is he a fantastic dude! And he knows my tastes, I'll give him that. Lots of dance, reggae, and rock & roll, baby! Pizza coming out people's ears. Presents in a huge pile. Streamers, balloons, the works.

What happened? MICHAEL HAPPENED. Fucking Michael! I'm almost done with high school, and I've been done with Mike since my freshman year, for God sakes. Why in the name of all that is good in this miserable little world did my ex pick today of all mother fucking days to show up? How did he even know where my fucking party was? I mean, come on! So, he shows up with a couple buddies, plastic guns (that look horribly real), and some spray paint. While all of us are inside, me opening presents and giggling at the silly ones (who gives a girl glow-in-the-dark condoms, anyway?), him and his jack-ass goons are outside popping my balloons and spray painting horrible things in the grass and on the sidewalk. What the fuck.

I see this as I walk outside, and the next thing I know, a gun is at my temple and tears are running down my face. I hear his voice to my left, and he's getting such a kick out of my despair. I don't know how it came to this – we broke up four years ago. He'd been controlling and showed signs of abuse then, but this? I can hear him, telling me to get on my knees. His friends are inside the building, shouting at my friends, my family. Telling them to back away from the windows and doors, into a corner. I hear the guys yelling back, my mother crying. I hope to God my grandmother's okay. Her heart hasn't been so good since my grandfather died.

His hand is in my hair, and he yanks so hard! I hear a zipper, a wicked snort of a laugh that disgusts me down to my very soul. I hear the command he gives, but I don't remember the rest…

What I do remember, however, brings me comfort.

"You know what you have to do when this is over."

I laugh, bitterly, inside my head, and though my mouth and body are numb, I know what's going on outside my conscience, and all I can do is cry inside. Long arms curl around my shoulders, my mental sense of self shaking like a babe in the cold. I don't understand this, but at the moment I don't want to. All I know is that I can smell old cologne and anger is radiating from the body next to mine. I don't know how long I was in this self-induced conscious coma, but when I came out of it, it was because of the sound of a click near my temple.

My lips were wet, sticky, and something much less dense was rolling down from my temple. Water. It was water in those guns! I turned my eyes on this man I hated so much, and he must have felt the fury. His laughter stopped, cut short by my silent fury and his own surprise at it. He always thought I was timid. Little girl's not so easy anymore, I thought, rising from my knees and staring him down.

"Do it," encouraged the sleek voice in the back of my head. "You don't need to fear him. He is powerless in the face of your wrath and no one is here to stop you, my dear."

I always carry mace. In this city, only idiots don't carry something protective. It's only been a week, however, since I switched out the contents to something much more toxic. The aerosol can is in my palm before he can blink, and when he does, he breathes in one of the most noxious scents he's ever had the displeasure of inhaling, I'm sure. I don't know what he saw when he opened his eyes, but he swung, and his fist caught my cheekbone, and I staggered back to the wall. His friends left their hostages and came running. He looked at them through squinted, watering eyes, and a shrill scream tore through his mouth.

I think it's one of the most satisfying sounds I've ever heard.

He turned heel, ran as fast as his cowardly legs would carry him. His friends followed suit, looking back at me like I was a witch. Or a monster. I hope that's what they thought I was, because if I ever see them again they're in for a rude awakening. I'm much more like Satan's mistress.

As you can imagine, the shock on my party guests was horrible. My lips were crusted and cracked by something I don't even want to think about, and the skin around my eye was already turning violently red. My family was sympathetic, my friends were infuriated. I think if he'd stuck around, they might've killed him. However, he is for the police to handle now – and I do hope they terrify him as much as I'm hoping they will…

At any rate, sitting here now after recounting this story three times to three different officers at the hospital (once while in the process of having my lips and mouth swabbed), I'm feeling rather numb to it. He could have done much worse, true, but what he did was bad enough. If he lives to see daylight, I think he'll remember that I'm not one to be fucked with…

So, goodnight, Diary. I'm going to put a fresh bag of frozen peas over my eyes and go off to dream of those perfectly petrified screams…

"Perfectly petrified screams? Aren't you poetic tonight… How do you feel?"

I smile, closing the book on my desk and locking it tight. It goes in a lock box, along with my notes, other journals full of sketchy material, and a few beautiful vials of bright yellow fluid. The box is placed under a cement cutout under a part of my rug I peeled back myself not too long ago. This isn't stuff you'd want falling into anyone's hands who didn't know how to use it. It's beautiful, really. Untraceable, potent.

"Better," I say after replacing the carpeting into its normal position. "I don't feel as… Violated as I expected I would. Disgusted, yes. Pissed the hell off, yes. But I already got my revenge, and that brings me…"

"Satisfaction," he says knowingly, and I see him nod his head within mine. He's so attractive when he's thinking, and I smile. His fingers are curled under his chin, brilliant eyes downcast in thought. His attire is casual, and I like it on him. Loose button-up shirt tucked into a pair of denims. Glasses hooked on his nose. But tonight he still looks slightly harassed.

"You're not alright," I comment. He smiles.

"Your revenge was satisfactory to you, Natasha. I am far from satisfied."

I feel confused. This is going to take a little conversation, I think…

"Hold that thought, hun."

Sighing, I do what I intended. More peas, back to my room, close the door… And lights out. Now, in the safety of my dark bedroom, under the warmth of my thick blanket, nestled into the soft scent of my feather pillow, I can relax and go back to my discussion. When I concentrate on him again, he is agitated further, and closing my eyes, he allows me to view him pacing. My body is numbing itself, and I feel more spiritually animated in my head. Ah, he is right. Visualization is an incredible technique of the mind. My thoughts touch his softly, and he jumps.

"You are not satisfied?"

"No. He hurt you in a way that I can't allow."

"But we took care of him."

"You took care of him. All I could do was watch…"

He is so bitter – guilty, even. It touches me, and I touch him. I cannot see what I do, but his eyes close and his head tilts as though I'm caressing his cheek. But the moment is short lived.

"I might be many things, none of them good, but of all those things I am fond of you, Natasha. You are brilliant. In my time, when I was whole, never did I meet such an astonishing person. Dedicated and curious. You ask all the right questions and you never hesitate to do what I ask." He pauses, a sigh leaving his lips at my confused expression. He never rambles like this.

"I spent my life outside of humanity, and that's how I liked it. I don't… remember much. But in retrospect…" He stops, shaking his head as if he were sacked and only just coming to his senses. I do not question. He is relieved, I can tell, and his eyes are on me, or at least it feels that way, and they are so bright they remind me of a clear sky at noon. "Child, I hope you killed him with the dose you gave him. That would satisfy me."

It is times like these were he is human to me. He is not the persona of the Scarecrow, and he is not the cold psychiatrist that views everyone and everything through emotionless Plexiglas. I touch him with my mind again, and I see him shiver. I see a crack in him that I know he doesn't like. We've talked often of his dreams, and how they come to him in fragments. His life, supposedly, before being a part of mine. When he was alive and 'whole', he says. Sometimes, I see those fragments in my dreams, and I can see and feel and think through him. As if the roles are reversed.

Right now, I am reminded of how he remembers himself as a young man in college. Timid, almost, but holding such a dark barrel of secrets in his heart. A beautiful mirror with cracked glass that might break if hit too hard. It took him years to build his fences, his façades. In this time, in this place, alone in my room and inside my head, his guard has been let down and for once I can be the one to soothe his violent emotions. I touch him again and he half-heartedly flinches away.

"Stop."

"Need over want, Jonathan." I rarely call him by his first name. His eyes are on mine once more, and his cracks are more obvious.

"They are one in the same, Natasha."

"Don't lie to me!"

I am hurt by his rejection. But I do not stop. Again, touching him, I feel his resolve weaken around me. It is an interesting feeling, breaking down those kinds of mental barriers. This time, he reaches for me, and this is our same old dance with a brand new twist. When he reaches for me, my head lands comfortably on his shoulder, and that is how I cry or scream. This time, it is the opposite. My chin is on the top of his head, his hair soft on my skin. My heart beats hard against his cheek, his arms curling around my waist. I feel his fingers lock behind me, and he just stays there as if pulling away will cause him to lose me to some unseen force. It is only after twenty minutes that I notice he is sleeping.

And within the hour, he is crushing me below him, head buried against my chest, wet tears slicking my skin. My name slips from his lips, and all I can do is touch his hair with my invisible fingers, and sing to him the songs I remember he likes, soothing away what troubles him. Once he is calm, I am, too. And only then do I allow myself to drift to sleep, keenly aware of him even in my slumber…

At breakfast the next morning, a heading catches my eye.

Suspect in local sex assault found dead.