Yesterday, I'd let someone else hurt me, but today, there isn't any time for it. I am too busy hurting myself. The one who had hurt me is out anyway... again. Out, like he was all too often. Out, for probably a day or more. Out, and he hadn't even left a note. Out, killing someone... for looking like me.

I don't look into his eyes anymore, by Buddha himself, I have learned better. So I can't tell if he looks into mine and sees the depth of what he's done to me.

* * *

Yesterday we went to a diner. All I wanted was a piece of toast and maybe some lettuce, and water. He kept talking to me as he ate, saying things I trained myself to ignore, looking at his hands, his tattoos, the table, anything at all but his face, his eyes. Displeased with the cleanliness (or lack thereof, he claimed) of the plates, he had gone, no, stormed into the back in that manner that makes me cringe, to have a 'word' with the dishwashers.

Our waitress wouldn't stop staring at me. I wish people would quit treating me like a charity case. Don't they understand I don't want 'help'? When he was gone, she came close and whispered low to me.

"Are you okay, dearie?" her breath reeked of the mix of cigarettes and the tropical fruit gum she smacked noisily, as she brought her hand gently on one of the bruises on my arm. One of the many.

Wincing, I pulled gently away from her. Don't worry, I wanted to say, I have so many bruises, so often, I almost think of them as tattoos.

"I'm fine," I stuttered.

Her voice got lower, suspecting, as she leaned downwards in an attempt to better see my face through my ever-lengthening hair. I don't think I've cut it in seven years. Or was it seven days? How long had it been?

"Come now, did that asshole do that to you?"

"He's not an asshole," I mumbled, wondering why I didn't completely believe this statement myself. "We're passing through. I fell down the concrete steps to our hotel." My voice was so robotic, so rehearsed and mechanical, it almost frightened me.

I couldn't see her eyes. But I felt them. They were looking at me with daggers, piercing through me and penetrating my most inner thoughts. Have I become so transparent?

I had finally said enough that she caught on to my foreign accent. "You're not from around here, are you, dearie?"

He 'saved' me this time. I heard his angered voice shouting, as he burst through the door to the kitchen and marched over toward me. The waitress left me as soon as she heard him, thankfully he didn't see us talking. My eyes remained fixed to the half-eaten piece of toast on the plate before me when he stopped next to me.

"Come on," he growled, tossing a few bills onto our table. "This place is disgusting. We're leaving."

I came to a stand as quickly as I could so as not to anger him, watching the floor mostly. He gave me a rough push toward the door, I bit my lip to suppress a yelp but began briskly walking to the exit.

"Wait outside by the bike," he ordered me. "I'll be there in a second."

I assumed he was going to start an argument with one of the waitresses or the manager of the place about his displeasure and make outrageous threats and claims, so I had no objections to waiting outside by his motorcycle while he ranted. I didn't even look back as I opened the door to the fading sunshine outside, red light reflecting from the bike's shiny metal.

A familiar set of eyes caught my gaze from the corners of my eye, and I turned to face the large window of the diner, plastered with posters for events that had mostly passed, 'lost pet' signs in children's handwriting (seven years ago this would have brought me to tears), and what would a wall like this be, without the missing person ads.

The young man pictured in one of these ads had neatly cut blonde hair, brilliant, brightly colored eyes, and the most peaceful smile I had ever seen. 'Missing since: October 10, 1966.' I wish I could smile like that, I thought. I vaguely remembered knowing how, years and years ago, but it all seemed faded now, like a distant dreamlike memory. Like this world was the only one I understood, the only one I had ever known.

But where have I seen him before? He looks so familiar. All at once, my eyes caught a glimpse of the side mirror of a nearby car. My eyes began to fill with tears, and I snatched the sign from the wall swiftly, folding it thrice and pocketing it in my faded coat.

Not long after, he came out of the diner, muttering, as usual. I diverted my eyes to watch his hands, which tossed me my helmet which I'd accidentally forgotten in the booth. I expected a strike for this, but instead I felt his thin, yet strong, fingers graze the side of my face, gently prompting me to look upward. This unexpectedly tender touch brought back flashbacks in milliseconds-- waves crashing on the beach below... clear nights... making love in a moonlight-filled bedroom. But as quickly as the memories came, they shattered at the sound of his cold voice.

"You're crying," he said.

I started to shiver.

"You're so beautiful when you're crying... keep up this behavior and perhaps I'll make good use of you when we get back to the motel, my little whore."

I wanted to cry, to sob, to curl up and let all my emotions flow that hit me every time he called me that. The one name I couldn't callous myself to. The only thing I couldn't get used to, no matter how excessively he used it against me.

Instead, I began mechanically strapping on my helmet, dragging my feet ever-so-slightly as I made my way to the motorcycle.

* * *

My own blood is dripping onto the paper I tore from the diner wall that day.

Who is the person staring at me through this sign? Me? It can't be me. A meek semblance of myself, part of me that is gone.

How long have I been gone from Lorient? How long have I been gone from myself? Does it matter? It's my own fault I'm like this now. Everything you do will come back to haunt you, I myself used to preach that. I was such a hypocrite. I was so naïve. So stupid.

Can't it all end? I want it to end more than anything. The pain is too much to describe. Numbing.

I laugh. Blood drips from my lips as I do. How numb do you have to be to stab yourself in the heart, twist the knife, and smile...