Fic - Insanity
Her madness first showed itself when she was four years old. The old man remembered this day since it was after the first time they had visited her mother in the home. The display did not shock him, nor did it upset him. He simply assumed that it was the insanity that she had inherited from him, that he had learned through the beatings in his own childhood.
He refused to see anything wrong with her behavior. Like most aspects of their relationship, he simply couldn't see that something might be wrong or inappropriate.
He saw her anger and rage as simply a genetic trait, something passed down through the generations, and so allowed her to act out.
When she was younger, it had been in wrestling matches. The tiny blond haired girl snarling and snapping her teeth as if she was some street mutt protecting a bone. She would fling herself at the massive man, still snarling, trying desperately to take him down. He would bat her down, deflecting her blows, tossing her slender form back on to the bed.
This would continue on until she grew weary, which, over the years took longer and longer to achieve. No matter what he did, she refused to back down, forcing herself at her father until she was nothing more then a pile of sweaty, tangled limbs. He would leave her then, turning off the lights and locking the door behind him.
He saw his own madness in her, and wondered, idly, if it would grow as she did, as it did with him. He was determined to keep her under control, to not allow her to fall into the same trap that he had. Where there was no escaping the need to feel another shriek in pain under him, to smell the blood, thick in the air. It was like a drug, a monster, a slave master, and he had given himself unwillingly to it.
By only letting his oldest take it out on him, he hoped to prevent a potential weakness in her.
Still, the older she got the more rough and more violent their activities became. He was forced, more then once to beat her into submission, until his arms ached and she didn't move from the floor. These beatings were never spoken about, they both assumed that they were simply wounds of battle. Afterward they would limp to their corners to lick their wounds, and the day after resume normal life, as if nothing had happened.
Now, with a child in the house he kept a careful watch on her. When he was not around, the staff had strict instructions to lock her up if she became to unmanageable. The restraints did nothing to sate her fury and insanity, but it allowed him time to come home to deal with it properly.
After seventeen years, he had become fairly confident in his ability to predict her moods, and when he heard the thunder roll in from the ocean, and saw her come in from the beach, he knew.
He rose from his seat and quietly followed her through the house and to the upper levels of the house. Standing at the entrance to her bedroom, he watched her, pacing back and forth like some sun soaked tiger. He never knew what quite set her off, she was like the sea in that regards. Silent and calm one minute, wild and raging the next, and despite the violence that ensued, he found it endearing.
The shattering of a decorative, hand blown tropical fish against the wall, brought him out of his thoughts. Like a spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum, he allowed her to scream and throw things until he could get close enough. When she was a little girl, picking her up and carrying her was easy enough, now it took some strength on his behalf to grab the squirming girl and haul her too the room at the end of the hall.
Throwing her into a corner, he locked the door behind him and turned to face her. She was on him in a second, snapping and scratching at his face, drawing first blood before he flung her off of him. During these trials it was hard not to keep his own madness in check, and only the memory that she was his first born, truly kept him at bay. Sometimes, that was not even enough.
This battle was not as long and hard fought as the ones in the past. Perhaps she had worn herself out swimming, or some previous activity that left her slow and weak. That did not stop her mouth, of course. She spoke vile things about him, some true, some out right lies, all of them forcing to test his self control.
It took all his strength not to bash the little whore's face in, every ounce of self control not to tear the bitch in half. Anything to shut her fucking mouth, to keep her from flinging his sin and their relationship in his face.
One day, he might kill her, one day when she served her usefulness. As it stood, tonight, here and now, she was his heir, and until John Baptist could take her place, he would leave her alive.
Her violence sated, and his still boiling, he left her before he took a course of action that he might regret. Ignoring her taunts, and then pitiful pleas to come back to her.
He refused to see anything wrong with her behavior. Like most aspects of their relationship, he simply couldn't see that something might be wrong or inappropriate.
He saw her anger and rage as simply a genetic trait, something passed down through the generations, and so allowed her to act out.
When she was younger, it had been in wrestling matches. The tiny blond haired girl snarling and snapping her teeth as if she was some street mutt protecting a bone. She would fling herself at the massive man, still snarling, trying desperately to take him down. He would bat her down, deflecting her blows, tossing her slender form back on to the bed.
This would continue on until she grew weary, which, over the years took longer and longer to achieve. No matter what he did, she refused to back down, forcing herself at her father until she was nothing more then a pile of sweaty, tangled limbs. He would leave her then, turning off the lights and locking the door behind him.
He saw his own madness in her, and wondered, idly, if it would grow as she did, as it did with him. He was determined to keep her under control, to not allow her to fall into the same trap that he had. Where there was no escaping the need to feel another shriek in pain under him, to smell the blood, thick in the air. It was like a drug, a monster, a slave master, and he had given himself unwillingly to it.
By only letting his oldest take it out on him, he hoped to prevent a potential weakness in her.
Still, the older she got the more rough and more violent their activities became. He was forced, more then once to beat her into submission, until his arms ached and she didn't move from the floor. These beatings were never spoken about, they both assumed that they were simply wounds of battle. Afterward they would limp to their corners to lick their wounds, and the day after resume normal life, as if nothing had happened.
Now, with a child in the house he kept a careful watch on her. When he was not around, the staff had strict instructions to lock her up if she became to unmanageable. The restraints did nothing to sate her fury and insanity, but it allowed him time to come home to deal with it properly.
After seventeen years, he had become fairly confident in his ability to predict her moods, and when he heard the thunder roll in from the ocean, and saw her come in from the beach, he knew.
He rose from his seat and quietly followed her through the house and to the upper levels of the house. Standing at the entrance to her bedroom, he watched her, pacing back and forth like some sun soaked tiger. He never knew what quite set her off, she was like the sea in that regards. Silent and calm one minute, wild and raging the next, and despite the violence that ensued, he found it endearing.
The shattering of a decorative, hand blown tropical fish against the wall, brought him out of his thoughts. Like a spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum, he allowed her to scream and throw things until he could get close enough. When she was a little girl, picking her up and carrying her was easy enough, now it took some strength on his behalf to grab the squirming girl and haul her too the room at the end of the hall.
Throwing her into a corner, he locked the door behind him and turned to face her. She was on him in a second, snapping and scratching at his face, drawing first blood before he flung her off of him. During these trials it was hard not to keep his own madness in check, and only the memory that she was his first born, truly kept him at bay. Sometimes, that was not even enough.
This battle was not as long and hard fought as the ones in the past. Perhaps she had worn herself out swimming, or some previous activity that left her slow and weak. That did not stop her mouth, of course. She spoke vile things about him, some true, some out right lies, all of them forcing to test his self control.
It took all his strength not to bash the little whore's face in, every ounce of self control not to tear the bitch in half. Anything to shut her fucking mouth, to keep her from flinging his sin and their relationship in his face.
One day, he might kill her, one day when she served her usefulness. As it stood, tonight, here and now, she was his heir, and until John Baptist could take her place, he would leave her alive.
Her violence sated, and his still boiling, he left her before he took a course of action that he might regret. Ignoring her taunts, and then pitiful pleas to come back to her.