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"Kennnaaaa," my mom sings. "Kenna, where arreee yoouuu?"

I shudder, closing my eyes tighter as I curl into the smallest ball my body will allow.

For now, the furnace in the pantry is my hiding spot. But hot air from the nearby vent is filling the small space, causing sweat to form and drip down my back. My oversized t-shirt dampens, and my tangled red hair plasters itself to the exposed skin on the back of my neck.

I should've hidden somewhere else, but there wasn't enough time.

"Oh, Kennnaaaa. Come out, come out, wherever you arreee."

My trembling hands curl into fists while I grit my teeth, praying I'll get lucky. There's a chance she'll give up her search and just leave me alone. Right?

Problem is, I've never been lucky.

The scrape of the pantry door sliding open makes my heart drop into my stomach. I pull at my legs, forcing them to press deeper into my torso until it hurts. Maybe my mom won't see me. My petite frame shouldn't be easy to spot since I'm sandwiched between the furnace and the wall. The angle from the door should keep me hidden.

Unhurried footsteps echo throughout the tiny space, growing in volume while they move to the back of the pantry. I hold my breath, and a bead of sweat forms on my temple. It makes its way down my face, tickling as it rolls across my jaw. My lungs begin to ache from the lack of oxygen, but I don't dare to breathe.

The footsteps slow and come to a stop.

"I found you."

My eyes snap open and my head tilts back in time to see my mother charge forward with fury in her gaze. Her long fingers wrap themselves around my arm and yank, wrenching me from my hiding spot. Unable to help myself, I scream.

Wrong choice.

My mother grasps my head between her hands and slams the side of my skull into the wall to shut me up.

It works, and stars flash across my vision as the blow dazes me, making my body go silent and limp. I blink, attempting to make the world stop spinning while my mom drags me out of the pantry by my wrist.

Once my feet clear the doorway, she drops me onto the hard tile of the kitchen floor.

"I found you," my mom says again. She grabs something from the counter before dropping to her hands and knees, then places her face directly in front of mine. My distorted vision sees two of her as she smiles madly and repeats the words, singing them this time. "I fouunnndddd yoouuu."

"No," I whisper as my senses gradually return. "Please. I didn't do anything."

My mother responds by showing me what she pulled off the counter.

A chef's knife.

Tears roll down my face and my chest shakes as a sob escapes me. "Why? Why are you doing this? I didn't do anything!"

My mom remains silent as she examines my body, like she's a painter deciding where to add her next stroke. In a way she is. Except her brush is the knife, her canvas my body, and my scars are the artwork she's so proud of.

Knowing what's coming, I thrash, trying to pull myself away from her. But she pokes the blade into the bottom of my barefoot and tilts her head at me. The meaning behind her expression is clear.

Behave, or I will make it so much worse for you.

I stop struggling, and my mother's thin lips tilt into a smile. But it's not the caring grin I remember from when I was a child. Now her smiles are cruel, with nothing but promises of torture.

My breath hitches when she drags her weapon around my foot and up my ankle. She's not applying enough pressure to leave a cut. No. It's far too soon for that and would ruin her fun. My mother likes to take her time, enjoying the fear that she instills in me as she trails the blade across my skin. I gasp when I feel the sharpness of the metal leave a long shallow scratch where it makes contact, and inadvertently shiver.

As punishment, the blade digs in a little deeper.

I didn't mean to move, but the knife is cold. It's such a strong contrast in comparison to the air from the furnace in the pantry, but the change is unwelcome. My body wants to shiver again, so I bite down on my tongue while I cry, compelling myself not to flinch as goosebumps rise across my flesh.

Focusing on the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, I stare up at the dim light in the stained ceiling of the kitchen, trying to transport my mind someplace else. Someplace where my dad is still around, and my mom isn't a monster. More tears leak from my eyes while my mother continues to slowly drag her knife up my bare leg.

"I didn't do anything."

My words are so soft I'm not even sure my mother will hear them, yet the blade stops, resting on the edge of the panties I was wearing to bed.

Her face appears above mine once again, blocking my view of the ceiling light. "Didn't do anything?" she hisses furiously. "After all these years, you still deny the truth?" I cry harder, refusing to make eye contact. But she uses her free hand to squeeze my chin, digging her long nails into the thin skin until I meet her gaze.

A memory flashes through my head, back when people used to compliment and admire our matching grey eyes. I would always smile in return because I loved sharing that trait with her.

But looking up at her now, the pale grey only makes her appear soulless.

"Please," I beg weakly. "Please, don't do this. I'm your daughter. Why do you keep doing this to me?"

My mother pushes the blade through my skin, making me cry out as she tears me open, sending blood dripping down my inner thigh. "You stopped being my daughter the day you took everything from me, you bitch."

I frantically shake my head, denying her words as the knife cuts deeper. "It wasn't my fault! What happened was not my fault! You must know that!"

Above me, she bares her teeth in rage. "You're to blame!" Saliva leaves her lips, spraying across my neck as her face turns red, and the veins in her forehead become prominent while she visibly shakes with anger. "You've always been to blame!"

Her arm swipes downward, slicing my leg deeply from pelvis to knee.

I scream out in agony, folding in on myself as I reach out to stop the blood that runs freely onto the kitchen floor. But my mom drops the knife, only to use both of her hands to shove at my chest and hold me flat against the tile.

"It was your fault, Kenna." Her eyebrows slant dangerously, but I can barely focus through the pain. "It's always been your fault."

"Please," I whisper.

I'm not even sure what I'm begging for anymore. I only want the pain to stop.

My mother leans back, watching me closely as she reaches a hand down and digs her nails into the cut she inflicted.

I shriek and my vision goes white. The pain makes my ears ring, but not enough to block out the sound of her next words.

"You killed your father."

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