Author's Note: This is the first piece that I have actually sat down and written in well over a month. My Nanowrimo novel just tore the words right out of me (I won) and it took December to get them to come back and play again. I hope you enjoy it!
In the end, it happened because she hadn't been careful enough. In the end, it happened because there was a hickey against her throat. In the end, it happened because he stripped her down and saw the scratches across her thighs. In the end, it happened because he lost control. In the end, she died.
She died because his hands wrapped around her throat. She died because he shook her, squeezing her neck so hard that the air was no longer able to move through it. She died because even as her body grew limp he refused to loosen his grasp. She died because he didn't understand.
He didn't understand because he was ignorant. He didn't understand because it wasn't in the bible. He didn't understand because she was his. He didn't understand because he didn't know she was loved. He didn't understand because he didn't love her.
He didn't love her because she was a freak. He didn't love her because she was a sinner. He didn't love her because she was his daughter. He didn't love her because he didn't even know her.
He didn't know her because he never asked. He didn't know her because he didn't know who her friends were. He didn't know her because she was never home. He didn't know her because he had pushed her out of his life. He didn't know her because he didn't know anything but the alcohol any more.
His hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing hard enough to force the blood away from his own fingers as he screamed at her. The girl's eyes widened as she tried to understand what her father was saying, but the way that he prevented the blood flow to her brain quickly reduced his words to a buzz in the background as her whole darkened.
"You are not my daughter." The man growled, throwing the girl to the floor, uncaring as her skull smashed into the ground, a line of blood dribbling out of her mouth and down her cheek, as she lay crumpled at his feet.
She wasn't his daughter because she was in love with another girl.
"You are not anything to do with me any more Quinn." The man growled, throwing a powerful kick towards the girl's stomach, sending her body crashing into the wall hard. He didn't care when he heard the tell-tale crack of her rib as it gave way underneath the force of his kicks, he didn't care when he saw the way that her skin darkened and bruised when he tore her clothes away to see the extent of the marks left on her body by her lover. He didn't care when he threw her against the wall, her eyes blearily opening to look at him, a sheen of pain and hurt crossing her eyes before they drifted closed. He didn't care as low moans drifted out of her mouth, one of his hands holding her off the ground while the other punched her hard repeatedly in the stomach. He just didn't care.
Blood dribbled down her cheek from her mouth and her lip. Her head lolled on her chest or against the wall as he shook her body. Each moment growing weaker as more blood left her system from the beating.
The man didn't care as he threw the girl to the side and disappeared into his study, leaving her crumpled for others to see. He didn't care when he rifled through his desk drawers until he found his gun case, taking out the simple lock box and fishing through it for the weapon. He didn't care as he stood over her, pointing the girl at her head, smirking as he watched the fear flash into his eyes. He just didn't care.
"Aren't you going to say anything Quinnie?" The man chuckled with a raised eyebrow as he looked down at the young girl. "Aren't you going to apologise and beg for your life? Aren't you going to try to say that you're sorry?"
The girl remained silent, staring at the gun in her father's hand before lifting her gaze to his and shaking her head slightly. Indicating that she was not going to apologise or beg. "I'm not sorry."
She wasn't sorry when the man she had previously called her father lifted his hand so that he was aiming directly between her eyes. She wasn't sorry when the man squeezed the trigger and sent the bullet flying through the air. She wasn't sorry when the bullet slammed into her skull, shredding the protective bone layer over her brain and turning the grey matter into mush. She wasn't sorry when her head rolled back and her body collapsed to the ground. She just wasn't sorry.