I do not own bread.

WARNING:

It is very likely that this fic may get me kicked out of the fandom before I have a chance to upload any more chapters, because the bread fandom is supposed to be full of humour, angsty drama and Joetina, not dark stuff like this. You know when people say Read at your own risk? Well, I seriously mean it when it comes to this fic. I am not a sick and twisted person, this is just an idea loosely inspired by one of my favourite songs that cropped into my head and gave me a sudden burst of inspiration. If by any chance I am still in the fandom to continue this fic, then it will get nicer with time.

I am so sorry.

Prologue

It's dark.

The house is empty, and she is throwing things into her suitcase in a haphazard way.

She's running out of time. It's nearly too late, he's nearly here...

The door slams. Every inch of her skin crawls and a chill works its way into her insides.

He's here.

"TINA!"

She wants to do something strong, but instead she finds herself cowering into the wall. She doesn't know what to do any more. She's starting to lose hope in this relationship.

"TINA!"

His voice is slurred.

He is drunk.

This does not surprise her.

More doors slam and Martina tries to make herself invisible. Maybe, just maybe, he won't see her. Maybe the darkness will shroud her like a blanket and keep her safe from the fate she is about to-

"Tina, you bitch, where are you?"

The bedroom door is opening. Grim, ghostly light slides across the floor, and into Martina's eyes.

"There you are."

His accent is stronger when he's drunk. He leers at her, a grimy hand reaching down to snatch her from the floor.

"Do I get a kiss from my little bitch here?"

His hand is in her hair, tugging. It's excruciating, and despite herself a shriek pierces the air.

He laughs, a harsh raucous sound, delighting in her pain.

"Miss me, Tina?"

He's drunk, she tells herself. He doesn't mean it; he is just drunk, and tomorrow he will apologise.

But whether or not he apologises, it does not account for the hell he puts her through. The hell she has to endure almost every night.

"Yes." She knows not to deny him when he is in a mood like this. Her lips tremble, struggling to form the word.

"Good. I missed your ugly face, little bitch."

And there it is.

A slap.

It's started.

She doesn't ask why any more. She knows it is because she is too "ugly" for his tastes, or merely because she is in the way, target practice. She doesn't even cry out when his hand slams into her face.

"Like that, little bitch?"

Most men call their wives "honey", "baby" or "sweetheart." His pet name for her is far more sinister and degrading.

"Answer me, you brat!"

She didn't answer because she feared any answer she gave would anger him. Now, she realises with a twist of horror, that by not doing so, it has only made it worse.

The next blow is more severe, a fist curled up and thudding into the side of her head, unsteadying her.

Still, she doesn't cry out.

She doesn't cry out because she knows that this is not the worst pain she will endure tonight. She is saving her screams.

This is only the appetiser.

He shoves her roughly to the ground. She falls on the suitcase she was pathetically packing with a thud and it topples over, clothes scattering across the floor.

He looks down, eyes focusing on the suitcase, and she freezes. This is bad- very bad. Many times, during one of his drunken stupors, has he threatened what will happen if she tries to leave him. Of course, when he is sober, he whines and promises that she can leave if she wants, but he never means it anyway and besides, he is not sober now.

A grin, so twisted and masochistic that it is truly terrifying to behold, splits his unshaven face in half. She knows this grin all too well. He is not happy, but hysterically furious, and at the same time in a sick way satisfied that he now has a reason, a rationale, for what he is about to inflict on her.

"What were you doing, Tina?" he hisses, digging his fingernails into her arm so tightly that it breaks the skin.

"Leaving me?"

She can't speak right now. She is frozen, staring up at him, unable to draw any ounce of the strength she once had.

"No." she finally lies, then winces at how untrue the words sound.

"Get up, you lying whore!"

He roars the words, yanking on her arm so hard that it nearly rips it from its socket. She scrambles up, legs shaking, and meets his malicious grin, eyes glazed with the twin evils of sadism and alcohol, combined to create a nightmarish being. With his free hand, the other still grasping her arm, he begins to fling the clothes she had packed across the room with a violent fury, tearing most of them in the effort.

"Didn't I tell you what would happen if you tried to leave? Huh? ANSWER ME!"

"Yes, you did!"

The answer is not enough. He flings her across the room, and she crashes onto the dilapidated bed. Before she can move, he lunges for her, clambering on top, feeling of alcohol.

"I guess I need to teach you a bloody lesson, Tina."

He claws at her cheeks, holding her face close to his and staring into her eyes, his own filled with an indescribable darkness. And Martina knows that he is done with the little games, done with the appetisers.

It is time for the main course.

Every inch of her is frozen with fear.

He is not gentle, of course. He is rough, and every second is filled with as more agony than humanly possible. She is tossed across the bed and in his haste to tear her clothes from her skin, her skull whacks against the chipped headboard of the bed, and she wishes that it will knock her out, so she does not have to be conscious for the torture to come. But it does not, and though she tries to hold it in, she screams, screams so loudly that her throat feels torn to shreds.

No matter how much she prepares herself for it, she can never grow accustomed. Each time is fresh in its horror.

In the darkness, with tears streaming down her cheeks and mingling with sweat and blood, Martina squeezes her eyes shut. And she prays, with a broken desperation, that God will save her from this nightmare in any way possible.

If you have read this and do not absolutely loathe me for what I have done to Martina, then I urge you to listen to the song that inspired this, "Face Down" by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, a song that is nowhere near as dark as some of the stuff that has happened or will happen in this fic, but still raises awareness of abusive relationships. ( I do not own the rights to the song Face Down or the title, both are referenced for entertainment purposes only and no copyright infringement is intended.)