Yours truly, Harry

Chapter 1

Pain. That's all I feel as another blow came. A hit to my leg, then to my side, next to my head. Black dots crawl into my vision as a look up at the Dylan I used to love, searching for any piece of how he used to be in his eyes. But there is nothing left of him. Only anger and lust.

I look away from him, trying to ignore the unbearable pain all over my body. But I can't, hence the unbearable part. I feel my blonde hair being pulled from my scalp as I'm pulled up to my feet by it. I whimper, but this is far from the worst pain. Much to my disgust, my head is pulled around so I am looking my nightmare right in the face. I don't listen to the words he screams at me, which are sure to be filled with swears and insults. The usual, of course. His breath smells strongly of whiskey, something I used to enjoy when I was around him. Now the smell is so overpowering I can hardly breath.

I wait for the screaming to be over and for the next blow to come, sure to be more painful then the last. I hope that he will just scream at me for the rest of the night, instead of hitting me, but my thoughts are cut short as Dylan grabs hold of my wrist and twists it. Hard. So hard I hear a crack, or maybe a snap. I fall back to the ground with defeat and grip my wrist. I wish I could say that I could barely feel the pain, that the adrenaline rushing through my vains would help ease my pain, but I just feel weak. I don't want to move, and I sure as hell can't fight back.

This all started in my junior year of high school. Dylan was in a couple of my classes and I couldn't seem to keep my eyes off him. After weeks of me following him around like a giddy schoolgirl,which is basically what I was, we became a couple. Thirst year with him was beyond perfect. We never fought, he took me on the sweetest dates, everything was going amazing.

It was in my senior year when Dylan first hit me. I didn't come to this party he wanted me to, seeing as how I don't drink or party. I didn't want to wreck my grades by doing something incredibly stupid I was sure to do if I got drunk.

The next day I went over to his house to make up for not going with him to the party. He had other ideas. He started yelling at me and he was clearly drunk. He hadn't stopped drinking since the party. He told him to stop yelling and tried to stay calm. But he didn't stop and I started to get scared. It was when I told him it was over that he actually hit me. He punched me hard many times. I had bruises all over my body.

He told me it was because he loved me. He also told me if I broke up with him he'd hit me again.

It was the little things that set him off. Someone staring at me in a bikini, asking him if I could hang out with a friend, talking to anyone on the phone. It got to the point where I couldn't wear short clothes anymore, even in the summer, or people would see my scars and bruises. I hid everything from my parents. I lied if they saw the bruises, lied about where I was going, lied about how I was doing in school.

My grades dropped, I became distant from my friends and family, and I hardly ever got out. Suicide crossed my mind many times, but I could never do it. Dylan forces me to move into a small apartment once my high school years were over.So there's how I got here.

I squeeze my eyes shut as more blows hit me. I hope for something, anything to come so this life would be over, then for once something answers my calls. There is a knock at the apartment door, and I hear a man's voice through the walls.

"Dylan, dude, I've got the stuff"

I'm assuming he means drugs. Dylan stares down at me, silently telling me not to move an inch, then turns and walks away to get to the door.

Despite Dylan's silent warnings, I decide this is my chance. Once Dylan is out of sight, I push myself up to my feet. I bite down on my lip so I won't groan in pain from the hits I had taken just seconds ago.

I glance out of the room and see Dylan standing in the door, talking to the man and holding something that looks like money in his hand. I don't even have a plan, and time is sure to run out soon. Who needs a plan, right? I walk as quietly as I can to the window and look out of it.

A fire escape is right outside the window. I guess this is my plan. I quickly unlock the window and open it. My wrist burns with pain when I open the window and I want to scream out in pain, but I contain the noise. I stick one leg out the window and place it on the floor of the fire escape. I can only hope it's still stable after not being used for who knows how long.

Sticking my other leg out the window, I turn around and look at Dylan. He's still dealing the money. I take a deep breath and close the window quietly, wincing as it makes a small creaking noise. I see Dylan turn start to turn around and close the window the rest of the way, no longer caring about the noise.

I hear shouting and I know he must have spotted me. Adrenaline takes over me and I start to run down the fire escape. I loose count of how many steps I take on at a time, despite the height of the building. The swearing from above fades, indicating that Dylan has left the apartment to chase after me. When I get to the bottom of the fire escape my eyes widen.

I had forgotten the huge drop from the escape to the ground. As much as I hate heights, I don't really have a choice but to get down. Unless I want to get caught, and I know that Dylan will punish me for trying to escape.

I sit on the edge and look down. It's probably a ten feet drop. I take a deep breath and count to three. After I tell myself three, I jump without thinking twice. The landing is hard and I fall to my knees, but I can barely feel the pain with the adrenaline rushing through my veins.

I get up quickly and start to run, thankful that I hadn't taken off my black converse earlier today. I run as fast as I can, turning on random corners and not looking back. As i continue to run I push through people roughly, not bothering to look back and apologize, although I normally would. I zigzag through the busy New York streets, getting lost in the crowd. When I finally look back behind me, there is no Dylan. I sigh with relief and slow down slightly.

After a while with no sign of Dylan, I slow down to a complete walk. As I walk I pull the Ed Sheeran hoodie I've had on all day tighter around my body, suddenly realizing how cold it is. I stop to look around at my surrounding for a second and immediately regret it. A man bumps into me at my sudden stop and knocks me forward, causing me to fall to the ground. He barely notices though, or just didn't care, because he didn't stop to help me up.

I push myself up to my feet and mumble some very unladylike words about New Yorkers under my breath. Once I am on my feet again I looks around. It only takes me a few seconds to realize I have no idea where I am.

Panic replaces my adrenaline and I bite my lip nervously. As I look around again I notice that it is very dark by know. I pull out my crappy flip phone and look at the time. It's 10:23, not too late for New York. I start to walk slowly again, not having any clue where I'm going.

I'm not sure how long I walk before I come to a small, cozy looking bakery called "Emma's bakery". It is right in between a sub place and a H&M. Deciding this would be as good as it gets, I open the door and smile slightly at the bell that sounds when I walk in.

The bakery is small with a few tables for two and couches scattered around it. The lights hang from the ceiling from cute little chandeliers and the walls are wooden. Different cakes, cookies, pastries, you name it are displayed behind glass.

Smiling to myself at the comfort if the bakery, I take a seat on a couch in front of a window. There are only a few other customers in the bakery, all eating some kind of cake. I shift my attention to a guy sitting at a table.

He is wearing an apron that reads "Emma's bakery" so I assume he must work here. He looks about my age and has curly brown hair. I mean really curly. Well at least for the part I can see, which is only the front, considering he is wearing a brown beanie.if I'm being honest he is quite attractive. He is writing in a leather book, maybe some kind of journal. For some reason I want to walk over to him, pick up the journal, and start to read it.

It isn't long before my eyes start to feel droopy, and I lay down on the couch, closing my eyes. And you can probably guess what I do next.