A/N: Okay, there was a looong wait, I know. Thank you for bearing with me, but I really really wanted to find someone to beta this, as English is not my native language.

I want to thank Totteacher and ToxicRainfall for beta-ing this. They helped me improve the text a lot.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, and most certainly not Edward and Bella. They're Stephenie Meyer's. The words are mine :D

So here it goes…

1,2,3

Chapter 1 – Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer?

Take, take all you need

And I will compensate your greed

With broken hearts…

Muse – The Small Print

Sometimes I imagine being able to lie naked in front of myself, on my back, eyes closed and peaceful, breathing softly, at my own mercy. I imagine I take my hands and push my fingers through my flesh. And my skin gives easily, just like the soft butter frosting of the best cake you have ever eaten. I can see myself crying, silently and gratefully as I push my fingers deeper into warm and moist skin, the metallic smell of blood tinting the air, heated blood flooding my cheeks, making me burn and crave. When I take my fingers out I leave huge red gaping holes in my flesh, a symbol of the ones I carry around every day, hidden from sight, unknown to all the people I smile at and laugh with, all the people that came and left over the past decade.

In reality, I'm alone, looking off into space and trying to calm my frenzied thoughts. I shut my eyes tightly, clenching and unclenching my fists. Fingers itching, eyes focusing on my phone, my skin and my soul begging, knowing they are a few pressed buttons away from redemption. And I know with every part of myself that battles against the others what the outcome will be. My powerless and ashamed capitulation tries to lessen the shrill need that goes through me, commanding, begging, overpowering every other voice that whispers and pleads to put an end to this, that this road is one I will never be able to come back from.

So what?

I don't care. It's not the future I'm worried about. I wouldn't have that to come back for anyway. Now I just want to be able to take a small hit from my favourite drug. And I know I'm just like and addict, promising myself that I'll just take what I need and then leave...that it will be the last time, just this once….because I can't take it. It's too unbearable. I need to make it stop.

Please, make it stop…

I can't breathe. Not properly. There's this weight pressing on my throat, chest and shoulders and I have to carry it with me every day, the memories of what I've done and seen and been through. Pain is the only thing that makes sense, it helps me lift all this pressure that threatens to crush me at every step, every little thing that takes me back and plays some random, painful memory in front of my eyes, leaving me reeling and desperate for something to make me forget.

Please, make me forget…erase my life and let me float in dark oblivion.

It's not the bad memories that I'm afraid of. It's the good ones that I run away from with all my might, that I would sell and give away only if I could keep only the bad ones, seeking comfort from all the regrets that fill my throat with inconsolable sobs and my eyes with unshed tears.

I used to cry so much, my eyes always glassy and swollen red, brimming with moisture. I would lay in bed night, after night, after night, my face streaked with lines of wet and dried tears. My forehead would be covered with a sheen of cold sweat, fingers curling and uncurling in my pillow, throat sore from wrecking sobs and silent praying, the pain in my chest so overwhelming that I was wondering at which moment it would be too much and something would physically break for good, leaving me despondent and catatonic and just…fucking…blank for once. But I never reached that breaking point, my sorrow only carving deeper and larger, making it harder and harder for my cup of 'enough' to get filled to the brim and overflow. Like an underground river, suffering and despair only seeped deeper into my little black soul making me numb, a bottomless recipient that collects the most painful feelings that humans were given to feel. Ironically, the blankness I craved for did come, but it was the worst thing I could ever ask for because now I can't ever get a break from all of it. I can't cry, I can't reach that point where things just flood to the surface and find a physical expression in my body. Now I feel it deep down, at the bottom of my bottomlessness, constantly pushing my 'enough' impossibly and unreachably lower. I have no borders…I need to feel the pain to make it stop, to get to my breaking point.

Please, make it hurt…Please, make it good for me.

Just a few pressed buttons away.

I take my journal out of my bag sitting on the floor and I open it to where I have tucked away his picture and I put the image of his beautiful face in front of me on my desk and I stare at it. I haven't had the chance to look at him too much over the past months. He asked me to keep my eyes down in his presence unless he instructs differently and I tried my best to obey. The picture is nothing special, just a portrait but his face is mesmerizing and the way he gazes to the camera makes me lose my breath when I look at the photograph for too long. He's so…alive and he intimidates me, even in a photo his eyes seem to see right through me, intruding and revealing my inner most hidden secrets. I turn the picture and look at his beautiful script.

For your safety and trust. – EAC

EAC…I know what the second letter stands for, but I wonder what the 'E' and 'C' mean. I know he hasn't given me his real name.

I huff and turn the picture again, looking at him, looking at me.

I'm doing a staring contest with a photograph…Coward! I mentally slap my self. Then I physically slap myself.

Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer?

I stretch my hand towards my phone.

Before my brain catches up with my body, I'm already holding my phone, my fingers searching for his name in my agenda, starting a new message, ashamed that this has already become a routine, that both of us know so well and wait for, with delighted anticipation on his side and terrified denial on my part. He and I both know that it won't be too long before I take my phone in my hands and scroll to his name and demand that he chips away even more pieces of my fucked up self. My heart is already playing a frenzied fugue in my chest, making my cheeks burn and my fingers tremor above the keys that could and would compose the redeeming words.

Hurt me. Hurt me. Make it good.

With a last trembling breath I try to calm erratic beating in my chest, muting all the raging voices in my head, rendering useless the battle with the part of me that wants to save itself. I choose what I'm sure is not his real name, but his pseudonym, Anthony Masen, and type my demanding request, under my middle name, that I never used and never identified with.

I want to see you. – Marie

I shut my eyes tightly, and press send. I can feel my teeth biting my lip hard, but I can't stop. I'm trembling, afraid and excited, relieved that my better self hasn't won this time either and terrified that this could have been all to no avail, trying to prepare myself for a refusal, even if he never did refuse me before…But I know this will have to stop at some point, and if I have to be honest with myself…I am not going to be the one that puts a stop to it. I'll always come back for more, no matter how much time it takes, I'll always come back for more.

I startle and gasp when my phone buzzes.

Okay, fucking hell! I have GOT to calm down a little bit.

I quickly run my eyes over his words, holding my breath.

Little Girl, you know you have to be more specific. You want to see me? I only aim to please, If I'd known you'd get such urges, I would have provided you with a picture of myself. Oh, but I did…

I scowl in frustration. I can almost feel the cold teasing sneerbehind his words. He knows what I mean so very well, but he always keeps true to his promise…I have to ask. I know this, but still, each time I hope he will let it slide and let me keep some of my self preservation. But no, I have to tell him what I want from him, shed my last remains of dignity aside and give him his rightfully owned rush, watching me struggle even in asking for what he promised he'd give me.

I know we discussed this when we first met, but I'd hoped that at some point we would get to tango more silently. It took me a while to understand that this is part of it all. He is merciless in everything and this is exactly what I asked for and I can't hope for something that I haven't asked for. That would be just stupid. We aren't two lovers communicating in verses and silent suggestions. We aren't declaring anything to one another, leaving space for interpretation in a few little words. I want to see you…I know how obtuse this sentence is, how many things it can mean. To a friend it can mean…'I want to talk about something with you'. To a family member it can mean…'I miss you'. To a lover it can say…'I need to be close to you.'

But we are none of these things. There can't be any space of interpretation in what I ask, because he can't give me anything if I'm unwilling. If I change my mind and my heart, I know he'll disappear, exiting the stage as unbelievably as he entered.

I have to do this his way.

I want to meet with you and I want you to cause me pain in any way you find suitable.

I want you to break me, hurt me. Please, hurt me. Make it good.

I hit send and shut my eyes trying not to let the fear of a refusal grip me in its unforgiving grasp.

What if he says no… What then?

The answer comes quickly, putting me out of my misery.

Good girl. I want you to present yourself as usual, at 123 Whittaker Street , floor 5, 7 o'clock sharp. There's only one door and it will be open. You know what to do.

I sigh in relief.

Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so damn good when I stop.

This was it…So the girl is conflicted. Wouldn't you be? I promise you'll have the next chapter really soon.

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