NICKOLAS

I hang from the ceiling, arms spread wide. My wrists cry out as the chains, laced with oak tree venom, burn me down to my bones. I can barely feel my back whipped until there is no skin left. Short breaths escape my mouth as my head hangs low. This is a typical day for me, but today is worse. I don't react today. I don't cry, wince, or yell in pain, and she is angry. My back bears the brunt of it. I used to cry when I was ten, but once I turned twelve today, I told myself I wouldn't give her the glory of seeing me...