A/N: I feel so bad making Summer suffer through this; it's definitely something I hope never happens on the show.

He finally let her out. Even though he always did, he spent so long laughing at the way her beautiful hair became matted with blood, and her bitter tears stung the cuts on her small, weak body, that she would think to herself, he's not ever going to let me out. He's going to kill me and tell everyone I ran away, but he never killed her. Not yet. Because that was all that she wanted now, and he knew that.

She stroked the raised slashes on her arms and reminisced. Not all the cuts on her body were because of him. With so many scars, it was hard to tell which were inflicted and which were self-made. But Summer had become an expert. She knew exactly which scars where her own handiwork, and which were her father's. She was so proud of hers. They meant things to her, cancelled out the other ones she never wanted. Which one had come first, him hurting her or her hurting herself? Not even Summer could remember, it had gone on for so long.

"I'm so alone." She sighed, crawling into bed, and pulling the vegetable knife from under her mattress, where she always put it. She looked at her beautiful legs. Up so high that you couldn't see it, even in the smallest bikini, she found the part of leg she always cut, and carved another notch into her tally, as carefully as she could, ignoring the dim green numbers on her alarm clock. Eighty-nine days had gone by this year, and Summer had seventy-six notches marked. Most had faded in as the days went by, but in her mind they were as much of a bright, glowing red as the days she had cut them.

She knew it was sick. She knew it was wrong. She couldn't help it.

Above her "blood-record" she had scratched in four letters. Just four letters. All she needed to remind her that her life was only going to get worse. She decided to go over the letters, to remind her that they would never fade in her heart.

S…she scratched over the faded scar.

E…she continued, digging deeper.

T…she dug the knife in as hard as possible, bringing a muffled whimper from her lips.

H…she couldn't resist wiping off a small smear of blood and tasting it.

"Essence of pain," she muttered sadistically, pretending to be a witch.

But there was no pretending involved. She was slowly fading away, and Seth had left Orange County and left her all alone to fend for herself.

"He's run off with the gypsy blues," she sighed, "And little bitsy Summer has nowhere left to hide."

She crawled into bed and then suddenly heard a clinking sound, loudly. She felt her bloodstreams turn to ice as she realized her father was coming up the stairs.

"Oh no…" she breathed, terrified. If he came in here, she'd suffer more. She always did.

"Sum? It's me, a-creeping in the night." She heard him taunting her in a singsong voice, his ragged melody dancing under her door and making her body go cold.

She waited. Suddenly he went silent, but she knew it wasn't safe. Any minute now, she'd relax, let down her guard, and he'd pounce. The door would fly open and she would suffer further. It was a sick game she couldn't win.

Suddenly she heard a thump, and a string of incessant swearwords.

The door was locked.

"Just you wait." She heard him mutter dangerously.

Then she heard his uneven steps stomp down the stairs, agitated he wouldn't be raping his daughter that night. It didn't matter. He already had today, once he pulled her out of the cellar. Notch number seventy-six.