"Naughty little Harv-uh-ee."

The malice I once had for him, the violent anger, the insanity, it's gone. I can't bring myself to scream at him. All the nerve I had to fight back has shrunken into a small corner and is now cowering alongside me.

"Oh, Har-vee." I flinch away and claw at the door behind me. He's easily lifted me off the ground, letting me flounder and paw as he presses me, pinned, to the wall. I'm floundering, I'm panicking, I can't breathe. His puppy-dog eyes are jade hellfire and they glitter in the dark. I can see puddles of black behind him that shine faintly in the almost-morning sun. A slipper drops. He licks his lips. "Don't you close your eyes, you hear-uh me? Ah—don't you do that, Harvey, I'm not your daaaaaaddy."

No. He's not my father. But none of this helps, none of it. I feel my insides churn terribly. I feel nauseous again.

He smells like so many varieties of alcohol that it burns. Vodka, but whiskey, lots and lots of whiskey.

Nice going, Harvey, you pushed him to drinking in the am hours.

Why do I always think it's my fault? Every single time?

"Shacked up with ol' Red, didja, backstabbin' slut?" His grin is poisonous. I realize, this time, he intends to hurt me. This time he's going for it. This time, he doesn't care.

You're drunk, I want to say, but it doesn't come out. You're smashed because I know you'd never scare me like this. You love me more than this, I think.

"I-I-I di—"

Flick. A thread of moonlight snaps across my neck and the old switchblade forces against my flesh. I can feel my breaths quickening, and I kick harder against the door, only the insubstantial thumps are hardly enough to resound throughout an entire supermarket.

I beg to that God again, that imaginary God I keep running to who seems to have switched me to noises off.

The knife! The knife's in my pocket!

I go for it, swift, and my shaking hand flicks the harpy outward. His eyes widen, but his face cracks into a smile so big I fear his cheeks will split. His eyebrows threaten to push off of his skin. I realize, with a mixture of horror and heartbreak that he's not wearing his makeup.

"Ya'd do it, wouldn't ya? Ya'd take my life even after I—ah, after I let you out of your cage!" He pushes me a little harder and, suddenly, I can feel his wolf-breath against my ear, "You're turnin' me on, Harvs, that's a baaaad little idea."

Unfortunately, I can feel the evidence of that statement pushing against my thigh. My stomach drops. The knife clatters out of my grip and his draws a thin, blood-red line.

Which reminds me of the fact that I can feel his harsh, warm hand fiddling with my pajama pants. He shoves himself harder against me, and I feel his forehead fall there as his eyes narrow. For a second, there's some kind of warmth there when he murmurs, "Quiet an' still, Harv, quiet and still."

None of those words help the fact that there's an unequalled stab of pain in my abdomen and my head rolls against the door. I hate him more than I ever have in that moment. His palm presses against the side of my face. The minutes go by before I'm spent and, just like that, he drops me, my every muscle twitching.

Gasping for breath doesn't exactly help this moment.

I practically curl up on the floor, whimpering like a dog who's been kicked. How many inches tall do I feel right now?

Maybe two. I'm giving myself too much credit. Maybe one inch tall.

"Why'd ya gotta do that, Harv?" I flicker my stare around and around but the world's spinning and how did he find me and why did he find me and why did he do this just when I was damn fucking sure I was in love with him?

Oh God, my insides hurt.

This feeling is painful.

Ever feel horrifically infected?

He shrugs on his purple coat when my vision shrinks and warps and turns around so violently that I assess I've been thrown off earth itself. This is hyper-space. Soon, Ziggy Stardust will come hang out with me.

"Yer not done with me, ol' Harv-cakes, not by a long shot."

I'm not done with him. Not by a long shot? I breathe too quickly for it to be normal, and when I crawl to my feet I feel his hand on my shoulder to steady and I can't help but swiftly ask myself if he's bipolar where after what I assume was somewhere between raping me and ripping my insides out he wants to help me.

He still reeks of vodka. It transforms into scotch.

Everything feels unfocused.

The door opens again, and I'm shoved outside with enough ferocity to keep me on my feet, but not enough to make me dizzy. I stumble back to where I was. My knees feel like jelly. My eyes almost roll back into my head.

I hear some distant voice yell, "Bagel with cream cheese or butter?!"

I see a flash of red.

The ground rushes up to meet me.

Clean up in aisle one.

Smash.