Jealous Gore And The Victim

frayed nerves. Her hands, clasped tight, trembled with a barely contained fury, her eyes wide and glittering. "Why are yo

venteen years had been a relentless exercise in invisibility, a desperate attempt to shrink m

rown breasts and a curvy shape gives you the right to be rude? I'll stand up to you in this house, and nothing will happen. At heart, I'm very easygoin

eceded her, her face a storm cloud. "What's going on? Why all the noise

his pathetic coward is talking back just because I asked her to help me pull this shelf to search underneath it. Maybe the card fell un

apping sideways, a dull throb blooming instantly. "I will finish you in this house," she hissed, her eyes blazing with a terrifying inten

in life: to live and to die, and I'm on the verge of the latter. I've been serving you all my life like a slave in my father's house. None of my siblings have ever supported me, or even smelled what I've been going through. You asked me to cook, and I was doing it, and she's calling me to come and support her while others are inside doing nothing. Why?! How?! Wh

y broom handle, while Hauwa, with sickening zeal, snatched up a coiled cable wire. Together, they descended, a whirlwind

th the agony. "Don't stop beating me until I'm docked beneath the ground! You have to put me to

eath tearing raggedly from my chest like a dying bellows. The sudden quiet was deafening, broken only by my desperate, shallow gasps. They stood f

od seeping into the worn linoleum, I loved the outcome. The downtrodden spirit within me, the 'poor devil' I had become, was finally stirring, prepari

my siblings? The questions were a constant, nagging refrain. The weight of it all, the endless cycle of criticism and cruelty, often pushed me to the brink. Suicide, a dark, alluring whisper, sometimes seemed the only esca

rets and easy camaraderie. But the moment her gaze found me, a scowl would twist her features, a silent condemnation if I dared to rest, if I dared to simply exist without purpose. She craved my usefulnes

without eating her meals, often because she deliberately starved me, leaving no plate for me, or because the thought of eating food prepared by hands that inflicted such pain turned my stomach. Instead, I'd scavenge, finding scraps to quiet the gnawing hunger, avoidi

had been my reality. I was barely six when the cold truth dawned: my mother treated me differently, an anomaly among my siblings. I was a fixture in this house, a servant masquerading as a daughter. The chores were mine, the errands mine, the cooking mine, the cleaning mine. And still, I remained

ld seize upon the smallest perceived transgression, turning it into an excuse for a fresh assault. Even when Dad was a

rds were met with silence, my presence ignored. Any interaction was purely transactional, a reluctant acknowledgment of my usefulness. Friends at school were a luxury I cou

ecember, a crushing illness descended. I hid it, clinging to a desperate need to appear strong, to keep pace with the endless demands of the house, to maintain the facade of order and obedience. But one day, the facade cracked. While coo

he rushed into the kitchen. He shoved my mother aside, his face a mask of furious concern. She, in turn, stalked out, disdain

rce determination: about my mother, my siblings, my health, the happenings in his absence, the silent torment I'd endured. I withheld the worst of it, knowing his temper, his fierce protectiveness. Yet, their very actions, their continued indifference, spoke v

th an uncharacteristic steel. "Lastly," he declared, his gaze sweeping over us, lin

s. "I've tendered a transfer letter to return home," he announced, his voice softer now, but resolu

ous hatred. The idea that Dad loved me more, that he would uproot his life for me, was a bitter poison they were forced to

t shades. Their aim was simple: to turn Dad against me, to shatter the last bastion of my protection through elaborate setups and whispered accusations. But the Great God, ever w

gony. Things got better, yes, but their plots, spun in the darkest corners, still cast a chilling shadow over my days. I bec

my father's roof. But Grandma's whispers, her quiet strength, had sustained me through the toughest periods. Patience, wisdom, vigilance, carefulness,

e trials were merely stepping stones to a greater gain. I held on strong, refusing to

My mother despised me with a visceral, consuming passion because I was a living reflection of my paternal grandmother – a woman she harbored a dee

y fault? Was

reminder of that love. He was my unwavering champion, my number one fan. His words were always kind, laced with respect, honor, and a tenderness that made me feel like t

d jealousy. My mother could unleash a beating for no reason, twist my life into a living hell, corner me in a pit of torment, and cast me into th

g with a maturity that belied my sixteen years. Everyone outside the confines of my home – family friends, extended relatives – they

being." I saw the torment in her eyes when she looked at me, her gaze rating me from zero to nothing. I was the person who soured

in their chests, pain and anguish festered as I continued to exist in their nest. They wished me eliminated, wished

he front with him. My mother, her face a thundercloud, flatly refused to join us. "On your suit, ba

ht of my father gushing with laughter and easy jokes, sharing lighthearted moments with me, his favori