Please

Part 1

Warnings: Language, Violence, Domestic Abuse

"C'mon, come on tour with me!"

"Ricky, I can't --."

"Fuck him, (Y/N)! You gotta get away from him," Ricky's voice was aggravated on the other end of the line, and you send a worried look towards your apartment where your... boyfriend... is, still sleeping from working his twelve hour night shift.

It was his apartment, you'd moved in a few months ago, and it had become a complete disaster. He wasn't the person you'd thought he was, and you want nothing more then to get away from him.

But you have nowhere to go.

And if you leave, you'll have to take all of your things at once, you couldn't come back for anything.

You chew your lip worriedly.

"Ricky, you don't understand." you sigh, shaking your head; you're sitting outside, on the stairs in the cold air, hunkering in your thick winter jacket; your boyfriend didn't like it when you were on the phone with anyone, especially another guy, so you don't dare be inside and speak.

"No, I understand fucking perfectly. Look, when he leaves for work tonight, I'm coming to get you, okay? We're gonna pack all your shit up, and you can move in with me until you find your own place."

"Rick -."

"I'm not fucking arguing this, (Y/N). We're doing it, end of story. I'll see you at eleven, got it? And you're coming on tour with me, you can meet the rest of the band; and no, don't bitch that you're going to be in the way. Trust me, you'll be a nice distraction from having to talk and look at those assholes for two months."

You sigh.

Ricky was so pushy.

But it was only because he cared about you.

You'd been friends since childhood, and though you'd gone your separate ways after high school, you'd kept in touch.

Which you were thankful for.

You didn't have any family left, all of them had passed away. You'd been a foster kid, so it wasn't like you could search your parents out, either. You were basically on your own.

Which was probably the reason you'd gotten yourself into the mess you were having to deal with.

Your boyfriend was abusive, but he'd never laid a hand against you until you'd moved in with him. You'd lost your job thanks to downsizing, and you hadn't been able to afford your rent anymore. He'd stepped up, said to just move in with him and he'd take care of you until you got back on your feet.

But...

But he'd been kicking your feet out from under you ever since.

Your hand rises gingerly to your face.

This was it.

You couldn't stay here another minute cowering from him, counting the minutes until he got home in trepidation, wondering what sort of mood he would be in.

You had to get out of here.

You had to get somewhere safe.

Your foster mother had always muttered that you were a prime candidate for an abusive relationship, all meek and humble and trying to be invisible, letting people walk all over you - and she was right.

It had happened.

And you were ashamed of it.

You'd always rolled your eyes at her, thought she was just being a bitch because she could, but....