Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Letters to Myself, by Medea (medeafk@hotmail.com)

   June 3rd

   Dear Alexis,

   Remember this: it didn't happen the way you told everyone else.  Memory
fades with time, and it becomes easy to accept the account that you've been
telling over and over, but it's not the truth.  And you need to remember
the truth.

   You liked the bruises, the scratches, the way your body ached in the
morning after he left.  You wanted him to hurt you, and oh, you loved him
for it.  When he left you, left town, your friends thought it was cause for
celebration.  It was easier to take the role of the abandoned, battered
girlfriend, than to explain what really happened.

   It wasn't his fault.  He was a nice guy, probably too nice to stay.  You
watched the way his conscience ate at him for hurting you, but you asked
for more anyhow, you pushed him to do it.  And that's the real reason he
left.  He couldn't deal with it anymore.

   The friends, they'll comfort you all the same.  You don't have to tell
them what the tears are really for, but try to remember, for yourself.

   June 16th

   Dear Alexis,

   Can't stop thinking about him, can you?  He called last night, asked how
you were doing.  He was so apologetic, so sweet...  You wanted to tell him
to come back, especially when he said he missed you.  Instead you just
wished him well with his new job, and tried to pretend that everything was
fine.

   But it only made you miss him more.  After you hung up, you went to bed.
Half-asleep, you dreamed/remembered him, grabbing your hair to twist your
head around and pinning you against the wall.  You dreamed about that fire
in his eyes and the way his fingers would dig into your body.  You'd yell,
"Fuck you!  Is that the best you can do?" when he was rough but you needed
more, until finally he'd had enough, and angrily ripped your clothes off
and fucked you, your body slamming into the wall.  The next day, you'd be a
wreck, with bruises across your shoulder blades and marks on your neck
where he bit you.  The pain, the pleasure, that's what you live for, that's
what makes you feel alive.

   It's gone now, though, and you have to find something else.  The moping
around worries your friends.  Do you want to have to explain to them the
real reason you're depressed?

   June 20th

   Alex,

   You throw yourself into work, hoping that a new distraction will drive
out everything else.  And it does, a little.  It's easier when you don't
have free time to think.  You're feeling more in control now.  Hold onto
it. The rest, well...  There will be other men, right?  Just keep going.

   July 8th

   Dear Alex,

   That guy Amy introduced you to at her 4th of July barbeque is something,
isn't he?  You had dinner with him last night, and you talked about all
sorts of things.  You wonder if Amy realizes that he's kinky as hell.  He
picked up on what sort of girl you are almost immediately.

   After dinner, you went back to his place.  You don't usually sleep with
a guy on the first date, but this was different.  He offered what you
needed and you took it.

   When he held you down and you yelled at him, he only smiled, letting you
work up that anger.  You started to think he was just teasing, that he
wouldn't follow through after all, but then he smacked you back down and
you knew it was going to be fine.  He stripped you and tied your wrists
together and hung you from a ceiling hook, toes barely touching the ground,
then he used you like a piņata, beating you with that blunt little cane. 
And when you were about ready to collapse, wobbling on the rope, he lifted
you from the hook and you had sex, lying across a table.  He way he pushed
your shoulders into the hard surface as he thrust into you created soreness
you still feel now, like bruises too deep to see.  And it was perfect.

   This time you'll learn how to hide the marks better.  This time he's not
afraid to hit you harder.