The chill of the floor seeped into her bones, a familiar ache. Four years. Four years since the beatings began, since the words carved wounds deeper than any blade. She still didn't understand what she had done wrong, why she deserved this unending punishment.

“You are weak, weak and pathetic.” Her father’s voice, a whip-crack in the silent room, was followed by his disgusted scowl. "You are such a shame and disgrace to our family. Have you ever thought about us? How could you when you are too busy being selfish.”

She cowered, her white dress, too small and stained, clinging to her skinny frame. Hot tears cascaded down her face, invisible to him. He fisted his hand, fury boiling in his eyes. He spat on the floor, the sound a punctuation mark to his hatred.

With a final push, he slammed her against the floor, the old wooden chair groaning in protest as he rose. His dark charcoal boots squeaked, a terrifying rhythm as he walked towards the door. It was left wide open, a gaping maw of temptation. She knew better than to run. He was angrier than usual. He would quench that fire with her tears.

Two pairs of footsteps approached, pausing outside. Her own blood and flesh, yet they didn't acknowledge the tremors wracking her body. A cold splash blinded her, washing away the tears. She was thankful they wouldn't see them now. She didn't want to be weak. She was forced. She was submitting.