Whimpering, I wrap my arms around my knees, and cuddle into the corner. I hide my face with my long red hair and wait until she stops thrashing her leather belt around, knocking everything on out dresser off and the glass shatters, tiny shards piecing my skin. When she does, I look up and her eyes are full of sympathy.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, fuck, I didn't mean it. I swear I'll never do it again."

I've never wanted anything more then to tell her that it isn't true, that she will do it again. That next time I mention Buffy she will react the same way as today, and last week, and every time before that. Just like every time after she calms down, she swears that it will never happen again.

But it does, and it always will.

It's my own fault, you see. You would have thought I'd have learned by now not to talk about her. But for some reason I can't block her out of my mind like she does.

"I know," I tell her softly. I want to stand up and leave her. Tell her that I'm leaving her because I'm sick of all the bruises and cuts. Tired of being to damn scared of setting her off to ever speak more then four or five words at a time.

But I won't. I never will. Because no matter how much I hate it, I love her more then my life and safety. She sits down beside me, and I stroke her beautiful dark hair, and pray to a god that I no longer believe in to make it all better.