Thank you to Beywriter, Purple-Kissed-Wishes, Lamanth, Taco, Moonlight Memories, Petalwhisker X Fireheart and alanacrystal for your reviews!

I'm posting this early because a) I've just written it after a week of having no ideas, YAY and b) I'm away for most of tomorrow.

Inspired by Celine Dion's 'This Time'.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.

Another bruise. On my leg, this time. Oddly enough not her fault, this time. Just me falling down the stairs. She was chasing me, but still. My fault.

"Ray, you pathetic little know-it-all-arsehole, you're even more incompetent than I've always thought!" She appears in the doorway, an avenging angel, incandescent with fury. My crime? Her morning slice of toast is too brown.

"I'm sorry, Mariam," I duck my head. "Won't happen again."

"Of course it will," she snarls and throws the piece of toast at my head. It hits me full in the face – her accuracy is amazing – and slides slowly off. "You're too stupid to remember something for that length of time."

"Yes, Mariam."

----

The doorbell rings. She's not in; I don't need to answer it. I can just sit here and down a very old bottle of grape juice in the hope that it'll contain some sort of alcoholic element. The bell rings again. I sit tight, tugging my sleeves further down, right over my hands.

"Ray! It's me, Claude! Come to the door!" He's calling through the letterbox, stupid bastard. The bloody thing's sharp around the edges. Shaking my head, I stand up and make my way to the door after hiding the bottle back under the loose floorboard.

"What?"

Claude smiles at me – biggest smile I've ever seen from him. He's my next door neighbour, him and his boyfriend Miguel. Both are tall, strong men but I take pride in knowing that I'm stronger.

"Come with me!" he's saying eagerly. I look at him with a confused expression. "Miguel's out, so's Mariah, right? There's nothing stopping us!" All the enthusiasm drains from his face at my cold look. "Ray? Don't you want to get away?"

I think of my carefully hoarded bottle of almost-alcohol and laugh in his face.

"Where would we run to?" He has no answer. The light of hope has gone from his face, his voice that can only mumble half-words. I laugh again and push him hard. He stumbles back; his tatty T-shirt rides up his stomach and I see a colourful bruise surrounding a scabbing wound. "Pathetic fag," I whisper as I slam the door in his face.

I doubt this has managed what I wanted, because what I wanted was so strange and complicated that I confused myself.

But yes. Opinions?

xIlbx