Clara sat at the small table in one corner of the room, shivering slightly. She felt dirty every day in this place, but it rarely got to her anymore. This was different. She hurt all over and though he hadn’t actually hit her or spoken a cruel word, she knew he realised and enjoyed it. He hadn’t spoken any words, actually, not since he had closed the door behind them. Only grunts. He was still making tiny grunts now. She could see him from the corner of her eye in the small mirror standing on the table, see the sweat on his back, dripping down onto her sheets. She was glad, not for the first time, that she didn’t sleep in that bed.

The small, discreet clock by the mirror told her he had twenty minutes left. She wanted to toss him out, but knew it wasn’t wise. Dale hadn’t taken it well the last time she’d done that, and apparently this one had been sent by Marcus. It was even less wise to piss Marcus off. In the mirror she saw him stir and her skin crawled at the thought of him touching her again.
“Marcus was right about you two,” he sat up against the headboard. “Had her last week, she’s the spit of you. Younger, ‘course. Nastier, too.”
“Excuse me?” she asked, genuinely confused, looking at his reflection but not turning.
“Your sister.” The grin that came to his face was so vile she reached out instinctively and slammed the mirror flat on the table so she didn’t have to look at it. It shattered into large pieces, the size of her hands.
“My sister is dead.” There was a roar growing in her ears. “Has been six years, now.”
“She has a hot little body for a dead girl, then. Marcus must treat her real special.”
The roar in her ears seemed to take her away from herself. She saw her hand pick up a shard of mirror, saw the room spin as she stood, turned and leapt in one motion, saw his blood on her hands and her sheets, but she did not feel any of it.