It took nearly forty strokes, her voice becoming cracked, her screams turning hoarse as she cried, lashing my heart as I lashed her flesh, loathing myself, hating her for pushing me to do this. Hating my brother Andrew, hating my father for his cruelty, for his control over me. For the control I allowed him to have. The control I should have taken a long time ago.
I only stopped when the silence on the other side of the door grew into a soft murmur, and the sound of silverware stroking dishes announced that dessert was being served. The devils were being entertained, and would soon grow bored after they'd been sated. My head and arm ached. I hated them all but hated myself most of all. I hated how much of a coward I was.
