"Stop it. You can't," I commanded calmly with a small smile playing at my lips.
I wrung my hands absent mindedly, glancing back and forth between the faint pulsations of the pale blue veins under my skin and the chipped china plate set before me.
Down the long, dark oak table he sat: taunting me as he always had. He was constantly scolding me for this and that – for staining my white Sunday dress. Gruffly, coarsely spitting violent strings of words at me for the supposed incompetence and ineptitude he'd assumed of me. And perhaps he had been right at times, correcting me, but it had grown so tiresome. So very tiresome.
"Always getting into trouble, running about like a common little heathen. Disgraceful!"
"You can't," I repeated. My voice cracked as I fingered a tear in the hem of my skirt, then rubbed the crimson dye now settled in the lap of my dress.
"Worthless, foolish girl."
"You can't!" I shrieked suddenly, shredding off the most peculiar curled and curves chips of wood from the