You always told me he was no good. He was a bad person who used people. I should have known. Hell, half of his ex's tried to warn me about him, but I was stupid, I was thick-headed, I was so in love it hurt. Literally. 3 months into our relationship is when it started. You asked what had happened, why a dark purple bruise graced my cheek, clashing horribly with my pale skin. I said I fell. I know you already knew this, but I guess I should tell you now, I didn't fall.

He had hit me. Repeatedly, because he was drunk and I was there. You gave me a skeptical look when I fed you this lie. It was hard because I never lie to you. But I had to protect him, because I was in love. The bruises kept appearing, in random places. Sometimes even cuts joined them. Cuts by him...cuts by me.

And when you said something about him I defended him, when I should have agreed. I should have left him. But I was in love, don't you understand that? That night when he took it too far. Violated me in a horrible way that shouldn't even exist. I came to you. You saw me, bloody and bruised, standing on your front stoop, coved in rain, tears running down my face. In my bloody jean skirt, ripped tee shirt and jacket.

You took one look at me and went after him. But he got you first. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should have stopped you. I sould have warned you. Told you about the gun in the bedside table drawer. But I was in shock and let you leave me in your cozy apartment, wrapped in your clothes; protected. Then I realized where you were going, what you were doing, and what most likely would happen.

He shot you. You died. But don't worry. I'll be with you soon.