There he stood in his full glory, her abuser, the mistake of humanity, the bastard who glorified himself with the title of police chief of the small yet bustling city of Carmel in Indiana, the leader of each of her living nightmares, and lastly, her breeder.

  It pained her to state it—her father, the man that was supposed to protect her from all evil, not being the devil in person, who she needed to be protected from.

  He was supposed to be the first important man in her life and show her how to love and how to be loved, not how to hate and how to be hated.

  He was supposed to be the one she admired and loved, but he was the one she hated with every bone in her body and wanted to destroy.

  Her attack stopped a while ago. The moment she realized who the mysterious person was, her body stopped whatever it was doing and focused on the enemy.

  Even the voices vanished.

  They knew there was greater evil out there, something even they feared, so her mind did what it could to prepare her for the situation she was in, and for that she would be forever thankful.

  It isn't like her body could do much in her weak state, but a beggar had no right to complain.

  To her unpleasant surprise, he was just silently dragging her, saying nothing to her sorry state.

  She expected he would beat her the moment he stood before her; if he only did that, this would mean it would be fast, merciless, and painful; the keyword here is it would be fast.

  But no, he chose to drag her to her own grave—changing places. This alone wasn't a problem; it was the silence, no more the calmness he operated with.

  This was deadly.

  It always felt like a calculating predator waiting to hunt down his prey. The problem here is she was the prey. He was almost never calm, but when he was, it was just the peace before the storm.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  It was a sick game he enjoyed playing, and she despised him for it with every fiber in her body.

  The only positive factor about this was that he only played it when he was beyond angry and needed an equal amount of release.

  The dragging stopped; she wasn't in the hallway of their homeless home; no, she was now on the living room floor.

  Raven had no idea why these guys liked to drag her around. Though she knew for sure it hurt like a bitch.

  He dragged her through broken glasses like a sack of potatoes, disregarding her condition. The glasses pierced through her.

  She was already weary and in immense pain, but this feeling shocked her through her core.

  It was like a thousand knives permeating her.

  But this was the least that was to come.

  Without any words or warning, he started to throw things at her, kicking, cursing, and blaming her. But this is fine. This was okay. 'I can take that much,' she thought.

  But then again, he didn't see any breaking in her form or despair. He didn't feel fulfilled, so he stopped and looked closely at her.

  The moment they locked their eyes, she saw hunger, and she squirmed.

  'Noo,' she had realized it too late. She slipped. She broke the number one rule. She gave a reaction; she froze upon that realization, and like the monster he truly is, his eyes lit up.

  Whereas he starts backing up with shaggy movements while simultaneously pulling out his whip, the only weapon he really used rarely. It was only when he needed optimal satisfaction.

  Besides the fact anything in his hand could end up as a potential weapon, the whip was an ultimatum of terror and torture in Raven's eyes.

  She knew that he knew that it was the one thing she feared almost more than anything in the world. The one thing that made her want to die on the spot.

  She started moving automatically. She was almost out of control of her mind. She was now acting on pure instinct. She was way too far gone. She was going feral, trying to escape him. She could take everything but this.

  'Please no, I am begging. Noo, please, someone save me. I am begging, please. I can't do this. I will die. He will kill me.'

  Somewhere in her mind, her conscience begged with the last energy it had before vanishing and giving her instincts full control.

  Like the devil himself, he fed on her fear and came closer, shutting the door with one kick.

  Eliminating her only way of escaping this horror.

  And then he began. He pulled something out of his trousers and drank out of it. It had to be alcohol—the thing he already reeked of.

  He was already hammered full after taking a few gulps, almost emptying the bottle in the process.

  While he poured the rest over the whip.

  When she saw this ordeal, her body started shaking, and she started screaming, trying to crawl away, but she knew it was over for her.

  Every attempt to flee was nullified by him. She even tried to go near the open doorframe that connected the living room with the floor to the outdoor door.

  But this action only fueled his inner beast even more as he pulled her back by her hair before she could reach the open doorframe.

  This resulted in even heavier and stronger whiplashes.

  She endured the best she could, covering her head with her hands and crawling to a ball, not moving an inch to protect as much as she could without passing out, screaming till no sound came out, but this made it even more enjoyable for him as he destroyed her, whipping her to no end.

  Even after she passed out, he continued till he was tired and left her remains to bleed and rot in the glass shreds and went to sleep on the couch.