She was going to die. She knew it.
Her face throbbed from the blows that had rained down upon her, her head dizzy and stomach seizing in pain as her organs fought to keep working. They were losing the fight.
Just run away! She’d told herself time and time. She can’t be trusted! But she’d clung onto that shred of hope that things would get better. After all, it hadn’t always been this way.
Once upon a time, she had been wanted. Loved, even. But life had gotten hard, and it had changed things. Changed them both. There were moments, fleeting as they were, that she was the woman she used to be. She would squeeze her hand and tell her she was a good kid. That she was proud of her. On those rare occasions, it was hard to imagine those same hands curled into fists. Pummelling her until red splotches on her skin blossomed into angry purple welts. She begged her to stop.
She knew she shouldn’t love her anymore, yet she did. She always would.
This is it, she thought as she closed her eyes, struggling to draw breath. There was something poetic about the person who had brought you into this world taking you out of it.