How unfair it is !

Suddenly, Lara’s eyes began to dart around the room, frantic yet focused. She gently laid Suzanne back upon her bed, her touch unnervingly light. “My love,” she whispered, “Mama will be right back. I only have a little work to finish... just a moment.”

She reached down and retrieved the very shard Robert had used—the glass still warm with her daughter's life. Gripping it until her knuckles turned white, she moved toward the staircase. Inside her mind, a cold, rhythmic chant took hold: Robert, you crushed my throat and killed me once. Then you crushed her throat and killed me again. Robert... it is only fair that your neck receives what ours did, my dear.

She began to descend, step by step. Each footfall echoed in perfect, chilling synchrony with the thud of her heart—not with the speed of panic, but with the heavy weight of dread. Drenched in blood, she began to prowl through the shadows of the house, her voice a haunting blend of searing agony and deceptive calm:

“Robert... Robert, my dear? There is still hope for our daughter...” She choked on the words—a trap for him, yet a cruel, impossible wish for her. “Come, let us take her to the physician. Quickly... Don’t worry, I will clean up all the mess. Come out, Robert...”

Then, the fragile thread of her composure snapped. A wave of pure, unadulterated hysteria surged through her. She began to sprint through the darkened halls, a blood-stained ghost hunting for her prey.

“Robert!” she shrieked, her voice tearing through the hollow house like a jagged blade. “Robert, where are you, you godforsaken demon?! Should I curse you, or should I curse the man who...” She stopped, the memory of her father—the man who had bartered her life for this marriage—choked her. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she whispered, a delirious sob escaping her lips. “I’m sorry... I’ve become a bad daughter.”

Snapped back into her waking nightmare, she began to prowl again. She found his blood-soaked clothes discarded on the floor like the skin of a serpent. He had fled to the washroom. She burst inside, find it stained with crimson water, but empty. He had washed away his sin and vanished.

In a frenzy of grief, she turned the glass shard upon his remaining clothes, shredding the fabric as if she were tearing the man himself apart. But as she stood in the center of the hall, heaving, covered in the Gore of her own child—the heavy oak door groaned open.

The world rushed in.

Neighbors, flickering torches, and the local militia flooded the room. And there, standing behind them with a face of manufactured horror, was Robert.

“Look!” Robert bellowed, his voice a masterclass in deception. “Look at this harlot! She... she slaughtered my daughter!”

The crowd gasped. The air grew thick with their immediate, toxic judgment.

“Yes, look!” a neighbor cried, pointing a trembling finger. “The weapon is still in her hand!”

“Look at her clothes,” a woman hissed, her eyes cold with self-righteousness. “She is drenched in it.”

“No doubt she wanted to sever the bond with her husband,” a man spat, his voice laced with venom. “A whore trying to clear the path for a lover! Filth!”

The accusations rained down on her like stones. Lara collapsed to her knees, the weight of their lies crushing the very air from her lungs. She tried to speak, but her mouth only trembled, a silent, broken bird. She couldn't defend herself; her soul was already dead.

The officers stepped forward, their boots heavy on the floorboards.

“You are under arrest,” the captain’s voice was like a gavel. “For the cold-blooded murder of your own child.”