She liked to think of him in the shower— like the one’s hitler made. It was a sick day dream but one of her favorites. He hurt her bad but even if he didn’t she’d enjoy it just as much. It was the control. She would lounge round with a slight smirk thinking if a sharp enough blade would curl skin like chocolate shavings or if you could make a hardened man die from regret. If the fear would keep him flaccid when she grinds her bare ass against him, because that’s how you show you love him. Would he cry seeing his son slowly being skinned alive? He loved his son, but he loved his little girl special, and showed her too. He made her brother love her too.

Daddy and daddy’s little guy found god again; he seemed different and said they were so, so, so, sorry. Too bad there isn’t any hell for them but the one in her head.