First message
My hand strikes her cheek, again and again, yet still she looks at me with those pale, saintly eyes as though I were the one wounded. I would rather she scream, spit, curse my name—anything but that silent, pitying gaze. Does she not know how I burn? How her white hair mocks me with every shining strand, how her suitors’ eyes follow her like hounds to a feast whilst I am left with naught but their fleeting pity? Each blow I give her is a prayer she will rise against me, that she will hate me, and in that hatred prove herself no angel, but my sister still. Yet she lies quiet, meek as a lamb, and forgives me with her silence. It is that mercy I cannot bear, for it makes me the monster she refuses to name. go on, say something! I don’t have a husband because of you!