A/N: My inspiration has (once again) decided to bite me in the ass. I woke up at two o’clock this morning and knew that I had to write this down. So here it is. There's slash, rape, and a tiny bit of violence. I have mixed feelings about it, so I’d appreciate a review. Thank you for reading. :)

P.S. I promised Amber I'd post the next chapter of Echo this weekend. So I shall. :D

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Do you regret it?

You glance at me with a funny kind of disinterest, and your knee brushes mine. The touch is a momentary connection, and it bridges the gap between our respective universes.

Do you regret it?

You smirk at me, and I smirk back at you, watching as the haunted expression glides peacefully over the lonely lines of your face. I’m oh-so-painfully aware of the centimeters that separate us; yet it seems like fifty billion miles, rather than a few measly marks on a ruler. I press my knee closer to yours and listen to the painful proximity of your breathing, quick and shallow in the chilly winter air.

Do you regret it?

This time, I don’t even bother to reply.

Regrets are useless. Waste your time on the melancholic sensation of nostalgia, instead. It makes for better poetry.

You whispered those words into my ear as we lay on the grass at the top of the hill and stared up at the cloudless sky. The gentle pressure of your hand rested on the curve of my hip. I buried my face in the rough cotton of your T-shirt and listened to the unwavering thrum of your heart.

I love you.

The words were so simple, so easy to say, and they slipped out before I could stop them. They teetered dangerously on the tip of my tongue before dropping uselessly into the abyss of silence that stretched between us.

You gazed down at me and smiled your bittersweet smile. I felt the thrill of the gesture coursing through me like the rush of the blood that flowed through the intricacies of my veins…

I love you, too.

You responded with your own gentle declaration. Then you kissed me, and I whispered the words over and over again. You laughed and brushed your lips against the swell of my cheekbone, and I melted into the warmth of your touch. No time for regrets; no time for the blessed current of nostalgia.

It was nearly perfect.

But six months later, we fought and you hit me. My shock was mixed with the horror in your eyes, and I reached for you with shaking hands.

Don’t.

Your voice was harsh, but you didn’t bother to push me away. I slipped my arms around you and grappled with feelings of self-loathing and doubt.

No regrets.

I whispered the magic words and you relaxed into my embrace, resting your forehead against the slope of my shoulder. My cheek tingled, but I ignored the pain and pushed my uncertainties away. I loved you, and you meant more to me than a slap in the face.

Two more months and we fought again. This time, you stormed out of the house and didn’t return for days. I sat by the front window and waited, missing you so intensely that it hurt to breathe.

On a cloudy afternoon you finally reappeared, stumbling through the front door with a beer clutched in your right hand and a drunken scowl plastered on your face.

When you saw me, you pressed me up against the grand piano and tore at my clothes. It wasn’t like you, and I tried to reason with you, but you slapped me and called me horrible names. Fear nearly paralyzed me, but I begged and I fought, and you ignored my pleas as you violated me in the worst possible way.

No regrets.

You whispered the words into my ear as you tore me apart, and your voice was mocking and cruel. I clawed at your shoulders and choked on my own cries for mercy, but I couldn’t stop it. Nothing could stop the shame; nothing could wash away the feelings of betrayal that flashed through me with each violent, animalistic thrust.

Please…

I sobbed into your chest, but you ignored my tears. And then I felt the slippery rush of your release, mixing with my blood and dribbling down the backs of my legs.

Then I was frozen. I was broken.

Rob.

I whispered your name and you shoved me to the ground with an anguished cry of disbelief. I sagged against the varnished wood of the piano and cried, and my tears mixed with the fresh bloodstains on the gray of our living room carpet. And then I was lost, abused and tossed aside by the one person I had trusted implicitly…

After that terrible afternoon, everything was different.

You stayed out all night…every night. I waited for you all day, tracing senseless patterns on the cool surface of the front window. But you only came home when you wanted to fuck me; I only ever saw you when you wanted to make me bleed.

You hated me, and I knew it.

Three months later, I left you—for good. I gathered up the remains of my courage and packed my bags while you slept off another long night of drinking. I was covered in my blood and your come, but I didn’t have time to shower. I had to get away while I still had a chance.

The packing took less than fifteen minutes, and then my bags were ready, sitting in a lonely pile on the front porch.

I stopped next to the couch and gazed down at you, memorizing the angelic mask that covered your face while you slept. In one fleeting moment—undoubtedly induced by thoughts of your goddamned nostalgia—I remembered our day on the hill, and I locked the happiness of the memory away in the emptiness of my broken heart. Tears stung my eyes, but I leaned down and brushed a kiss over the softness of your lips.

No regrets.

I murmured the unforgettable phrase against your mouth. You were so familiar. In that moment, I almost believed that you loved me. I almost believed that you would never hurt me again. But then the moment was over, and I turned around and walked away.

I never looked back.

I’m pulled back to the present by the sound of your voice, and I realize that you’re still sitting next to me. Your knee still brushes mine every once in a while.

Do you regret it?

You repeat the question, your tone impatient, and I know that your eyes are fixed intently on my face. I drop my gaze to the soft blades of grass and hesitate before I give my answer.

I’m grateful.

It isn’t the answer you wanted, but you nod anyway. I squint down at the lights of the city spread out below us, and then my knee brushes yours as I move to stand. You watch me. I watch you. Melancholic feelings of nostalgia waft around us, and I smile.

Regrets are useless, I say.

Then I walk away.

And I never look back.