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Hi, all.

Anyone, that has taken the time to read any of my stories, knows that I love to wallow. I find it really easy to do and something I strangely enjoy, which is surprising as I'm quite upbeat and chirpy. I promise.

There will be angst in this story, but it's told in childhood flashbacks and will be over after the first few chapters. This story is then set during present day, and will be a HEA.

This story, is mainly told from Ana's point of view, but there will be snippets of Christian's thoughts and reactions to things as we go along, and as we all know, he loves to brood.

This story is OCC. Both main characters have different back stories and meet under different circumstances.

Getting them together is the main drive for me when writing, once I have them together and you know they're going to marry, have kids, etc, etc, I tend to get bored. Even when I'm reading it's the same. The buzz of first contact is it for me. So I warn you now, it's a slow burn getting them together.

The heart of this story came to me in a dream and I thought, what the hell, if it's good enough for Stephanie Meyer, then it's good enough for me.

E L James, owns these wonderful characters. I just took them, shook them, then let them fall where they may.

Thanks SM.

Enjoy.

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Scars. Run Deep.

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Scars, are more than just physical reminders of the past on the skin. They go deeper than that, much, much deeper. They bind people. Ensnare lives, keeping you locked and entwined together for years... Without even knowing it.

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Chapter One.

Nightmares.

Ana.

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As the high pitched, blood curdling screams vibrate around the room, they penetrate my eardrums, bringing me back to the here and now. I jolt awake abruptly, my entire body convulsing violently and painfully as I clutch my throat, gasp for breath and attempt to climb out of bed. I struggle, nearly toppling to the floor.

My movements are hindered by my nightdress and bed sheets that have both become twisted and wrapped tightly around my lower legs. My blankets, long ago discarded, are in a heap on the floor. A sure sign that during the few short hours I've managed to get some sleep, I've been writhing.

I feel a shiver run through me and hope that it's caused by the draft from the open window, but as the temperature of the room registers on my skin, I realize that I'm not shivering, I'm violently shaking.

Freeing my feet from their cotton confines, I draw my knees up close to my chest. Hugging them tightly, I rest my clammy brow against them and follow my normal routine. I take deep, held, counted, well practiced breaths, while trying to focus on something serene. I'm hoping to calm myself, clear my head of my nightmares and erase my inner torment, but I don't know why I'm even trying, it never works. Why should tonight be any different?

"Will this never end?" I question the empty room. My voice, thick with desperation.

I shake my head, resigned to my fate and what I have to live with. How could this ever end, I don't deserve for it to end. I'm only fooling myself if I think I could ever be free of this...free of him.

After a few minutes of breathing deeply, I'm feeling calmer and a little more like myself. Uncurling my stiff body, I realize that my clothes and bedding are soaked with sweat, sticking to me, making me feel even more uncomfortable than I already am. I need to move from this bed, I know I do, but the fatigue from only having three hours sleep, every night, for nearly a week, is starting to take its toll on me.

Acknowledging what I have to do, I release the grip I have on myself and slowly begin to climb from the bed. I feel physically exhausted. My legs are weak, my arms feel heavy, making my movements slow and sluggish, but this isn't a new experience for me. You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

Once I'm standing and feel sure that my body will support its self, I begin to pull the damp bedding from the bed. Once I have it gathered into a tight ball in my arms, I head into the bathroom and toss it in the direction of the laundry hamper. After turning on the over head light, I rid myself of my clothes and head for the shower.

Unintentionally, I catch a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror as I cross the room. I'm hardly surprised by what I see, but it's still a shocking sight and causes me to gasp. My hair is lank, greasy, stuck to my head with perspiration. My skin is pale, grey and sallow looking. Probably due to the dark shadows that are permanently present on my skin lately, but it's my eyes, that shock me the most. I shake my head and pull my gaze away from the tired, lifeless orbs staring back at me.

Switching on the shower, I step under the water, not even waiting for it to reach a comfortable temperature. I hold still, unaware of anything around me until the water heats and finally penetrates my skin and seeps into my bones. I feel the warmth as it eases, and when my body finally feels like it's no longer shuddering internally, I find the strength to move.

My hands run all over my body as I soap myself up, eradicating and easing any lingering sweat and tension away as they go. I catch my fingers pausing, wanting to linger on my chest, but I swiftly force my hands up and away into my hair.

My skin burns, yearns to be touched, but I don't need to touch, to know that it's there. The smooth, pink, one inch indentation that lives on my skin just above my heart, will always be with me. Despite all the heartbreak and torment it's brought me over the years, it's a part of me and I wouldn't want it any other way if the truth were told.

On autopilot, I step out of the shower, dry myself off, then dress in clean pajamas. Reluctantly, my mind wanders and begins to dredge over the past few nights as I carry out the task of drying my hair. I've realized that my dreams, or rather my nightmares, have become more intense lately. Not that they've ever ceased or never been a problem for me, but they seemed to have eased over the years, become more bearable as time went on, but lately, I can't seem to shake them. It takes me hours to rid myself of the feelings they induce, but it's hardly surprising.

My nightmares are more vivid, more consuming right now. It's like I'm reliving that night in full Technicolor and surround sound, every time I close my eyes. I can not only sense everything, I can hear the glass shattering, feel it scratch across my skin as it flies through the air. I can hear the deafening, metal upon metal crunching and crashing noises with so much clarity that my ears pop. I can feel the heat, smell the gasoline. I can feel my fear and hear the chilling screams, echoing around in my head.

I don't feel anger or pity myself regarding my insomnia and the night I can't escape, there's no point. This is who I am, who I've always been, who I always will be. I don't deserve anything less, don't expect anything less. I never will. Nor should I.

I feel the usual regret, remorse and helplessness wash over me as I leave the bathroom and slump onto the edge of my unmade bed. I bury my head in my hands as I squeeze my watering eyes tightly closed, trying my best to contain it all.

The sights, sounds, and horror of that night are nothing, and a complete walk in the park, compared to what always follows after. Once I'm awake, the piercing grey eyes that are so familiar, so haunting, lock with mine behind my lids. For hours. Just like they always do.

After reliving that night, I can never shake them. Can never shake him, but I don't want to. So I live half a life, balancing on the blade of a sword.

I'm haunted by him constantly and deserve to be. I deserve it all. I've earned the unrest, the grief, the pain and guilt that I've had to carry around with me for years. It's only to be expected. I can never move on.

He died because of me. Died, saving me, and every time I close my eyes he's there, haunting me as a result of it. As he should be. As I want him to be.

I can never forget those eyes, can never forget him. I don't ever want too either. I want him to torment me, he has every right to torture me and stay with me forever because...because I killed him, and I can never, ever, forgive myself for that.

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Christian.

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As I gasp and take a deep gulp of air, my eyes fly wide open. Eager to take in my surroundings and confirm that what I'm seeing isn't real, I shoot upright in my disheveled, clammy bed. Still disorientated from what I've been reliving, I try to focus on what's around me to ground me and bring me back, but her presence is far too strong.

Clutching my rapidly pounding chest, I try to control my breathing and take back control of my body. I focus on other things, anything, trying to block out the memories and rid myself of the intense flashbacks that are haunting me, but it's useless, I never can. I don't know why I even try anymore. Every night it's the same.

Every night, it's variations of the same intense terror and torment from that night. After all this time, it's hardly anything new, but over the past few nights things have changed, and it's becoming unbearable. My nightmares seem to have shifted, they've changed their focus and altered their meaning. Ultimately, upping their effect and response within me.

Once my pulse has steadied and my body doesn't feel like it's just ran a marathon, I climb from my bed and head over to the full glass windows. I slump forward, resting my forehead and palms against the cool glass, hoping it will chill my skin and clear my head, but it doesn't help. It never does.

I lift my head and look beyond the vista of twinkling lights illuminating Seattle, and just stare into the night sky. Even lost within the black, vastness above, I can still see her. Can still feel her trusting, pleading, terrified blue eyes locked and burning into mine. They haunt me, drive me crazy, torment me at every turn, and why not... I deserve nothing less. I wouldn't want anything less.

The scared but captivating, cerebral blue eyes stay with me as my head lowers and my eyelids drop to blind me. Guilt sweeps through me in waves, consuming every part of me and it's such a powerful feeling that it almost brings me to my knees. Then it's banished, cloaked, pushed aside, and hidden, under deep, deep layers of regret.

It's so easy to do now, I've had years of practice, and honestly, it's the only way I can cope. The only way I can get through this. The only way I can live with what I've done.

My reoccurring nightly terrors, have been more focused on her, over the past few nights. They've homed in on my one Achilles heel and are now soul destroying. I've relived the entire experience from start to finish, time and time again over the years, with only ever minor adjustments or slight variations of that life changing night, but recently, they've changed, and they're worse.

They're giving me faint glimmers of hope, allowing me to play out new scenarios with alternative endings. Raising new questions and increasing my inner heartache, my head swims with the concept of change and being given a second chance. My body fatigues because I know it's futile and I feel myself slump further against the glass. I know what haunts and teases me in my dreams can never be an option for me. How can it? It's impossible. Doesn't stop me from wishing for it though.

The regret I feel from my actions that night, claws at me, leaving behind trails that burn. My head is overrun with the same doubts and frustrations from long ago. If only I'd of tried harder, been stronger, and reacted quicker, this would never have happened. If only, I hadn't of used my knife to help her. If I hadn't, she'd no doubt still be here, living her life, fulfilling her hopes, her dreams... breathing.

Her friends and family would still be intact and happy, not grieving for their lost little girl. I destroyed all of them, destroyed her. I ended the life she had yet to live, and no matter how my dreams may vary and appear different, they will always have the same outcome.

They could never end any other way.

When my knife entered her chest, piercing her heart and ending her short life, I felt it in mine. It plunged hilt deep, locking the darkness into my very soul, destroying it, destroying me... And deservedly so. That night changed me, hardened me, stripped me bare, and as much as it pains me, I wouldn't be without it. I can't be without it.

I will never find redemption or solace for what I did to her that night. I can never earn her forgiveness, or free myself from this constant agony I have to endure because of it. I can never look into her beautiful eyes and tell her how sorry I am, or how I wish things could've turned out differently. I can never do any of these things because she's gone.

She died by my hand and my hand alone and I'll live with that shame, guilt and torment till the day I die. I long for it, expect it, deserve it because I killed her...and I can never find peace within myself because of that.

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