Asaraiah“Cut her.” The words hit me before the belt did.I flinched just in time for the leather to crack against my back, sharp and hot, slicing through the silence like a whip of fire. Blood pooled beneath my skin, and still, I bit down on my lip.If I made a sound, if I cried or whimpered, they’d start all over again. So I stayed quiet. I always did.My knees crashed onto the cold marble, the pain from the impact a dull throb compared to the searing agony across my spine. I tasted salt, blood, sweat, and tears mixing on my tongue, but I swallowed it down.I swallowed everything down.Everyone was watching.No one cared.My father sat in his armchair, pretending to read the newspaper like I wasn’t right there, being beaten to a pulp in front of him. My step-siblings: my sisters, my brothers, they stood around me like a pack of wolves, their laughter cold, their eyes gleaming with hatred.I was the Montova family’s mistake. The bastard born from an affair. The invisible daughter.
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