It's impossible to really convey how strong a hatred can grow when directed at the man who has already ruined your life as well as given you exceedingly deep psychological trauma. You start to wish bad things upon him. Your dreams fill up with his blood, every time you see him you wish you had the strength to rip that look from his face. That look, the fake look of love plastered across his face, falling only in the darkness and loneliness of the sheets, where no one can see what's happening and the buises are so very carefully placed so that no one will ever see and no one will ever know. Only you and him and the mirrors see those bruises, and the mirror seems to sneer at you when you look at them, a disgusting feeling settling the pit of your stomach.

"Do you have a wish?"

The sheets of your own bed feel like they're strangling you, wrapping around every one of your limbs, and you have to cast them away. Shivers run up and down your arms, reminicest of the hands that once held them. Your sleep is occasionally interrupted by nightmares, eyes snapping open to rid the mind of the horrible thoughts, hand springing up to cover the mouth that wants to scream. Force the screams back down your throat, you don't want to wake him.

"So what if I do?"

Pictures adorn the walls, pictures of the mother you never knew. Pictures of the mother you'd like to think would have saved you from this torture, or at the very least would have made it more bearable. Would have swiped the tears away from your eyes, would have helped you lengthen your skirt to hide the accidental bruise that rested on your upper shin. She looks so unhappy in the pictures, and you wonder if it's selfish to wish that she were still alive, being unhappy right along side you... That's a stale wish, now that you think of it.

"I can grant it. I can give you miracles."

You stay late after school, the idea of going home making your stomach turn over. Home is supposed to be where you're safe, where you want to be. Home is the place you want to burn down. Your hand caresses the wooden desk like the hands caressed your most private places, and you want to vomit and you know you will later tonight, when you're trying so hard to get rid of the disgusting feeling in your stomach that comes with having to swallow what you'd rather blind him with.

"You can give me anything?"

You try so hard in school. You try so hard in every single aspect of life. You try so very, very hard because you want to live in a delusional world where if you make yourself perfect, it'll all stop. You'd finally be smart and pretty and kind enough that he won't make you hate yourself anymore, and he'll finally look at you like your his daughter, not just some dirty piece of meat. You'll finally be free of this prison of the mind in which all you can really feel is shame and anger and hatred. You'll finally be happy.

"Anything. In exchange, all you have to do is be loyal to me."

Sometimes you think about death. And it's scary, it's so scary. Yet, the idea of taking the knife to your skin is so enticing that you nearly do it. You spend hours staring at the knife block in the kitchen, wondering what it would feel like. Sometimes you get up and take one out of the block and you hold it lightly against your skin. But, you're weak. You're pathetic. You can't even end it because you're too afraid of the pain. Then, you just make his dinner and pretend like you never had those thoughts.

"I want to be strong."

It's impossible to convey just how incredible it feels to look at the red seep across the skin of the one you hate more than anything else in the world. He screamed at first, and you felt it; you felt the exact feeling he felt when he watched you squirm underneath him. It doesn't register as the same feeling at first, while you're hands seem to move of their own accord and create beautifully red lines across the skin that has brushed up against yours so many night before. It only settles in after you're fininshed, after the damage is done and the man you hate it gone. Only after it's all finished do you feel the remorse of the girl you once were rushing back ten fold.


You run the memory over in your mind, carefully looking at every detail that you remember. The Mathieu glide gracefully across the thin clothes-lines that criss-cross the sky like the cuts criss-crossed his body and the pain criss-crossed your mind. The blue sky contrasts their black skirts and white legs. It's beautiful. It's the kind of beautiful you never managed to become. Keep putting up your lines, keep destroying your memories. Focus on the blue sky and never stop until the bomb goes up your skirt and even that blue beauty is ripped away from you.

"So that I can end a nuisance in my life."

Is this happiness?



Her name isn't explicitly used like I would've liked it to be, because I don't actually know her name. I know ya'll gonna be like, "idiot, her name's Patricia". Except, no, it's not. Patricia is the name of the witch she became. Just like when Sayaka became a witch; her name was Miki Sayaka, but her witch's name was Oktavia (also, Madoka's was called Kreimhild Gretchen). So, chances are, Patricia wasn't her real name.