Little Elizabeth rests her eyes, head tilted back over the edge of the tub, body half submerged in room temperature water. Her slightly dirtied blond hair sticks like an extra layer of skin over her perfectly curved little breasts, around her narrow shoulders, down her curved spine. Feet in point position she sleeps, imagining a world of music and movement. Her little chest rises and falls slowly, like that of a child in deep sleep. She has been sullied. It is obvious from the spread of her legs and the c*** in her head, but her sweet lips and pale cheeks ratify purity.


A slam shakes the walls of the little haven, even interrupting the water’s stillness. Big brother is home. Hardly nine years old and dreadfully tired little Elizabeth shakes off the noise and turns her cheek, falling back into a pleasant slumber facing out toward the side of the room with a door. Eyes soft like petals and head full of enchanting stories, little Elizabeth is undisturbed.


Yips and yells and calls sound from the outside the walls of the tub but little Elizabeth curls like she’s in a bed and hears not a word. Big brother Mathew keeps calling. “Little Lizzy. Where the f*** are you?” Profanities are a specialty, along with creative tortures.


The bathroom door opens with a thump. Matthew, tall and broad at seventeen, sets his lower jaw in front of the top one, shoulders curving in menacingly. “Fucking c***.” He grabs her by her limp wrist and shakes her until her feet have found the slippery ground of the tub. She, still groggy, rubs her left eye with the corresponding hand and mumbles forgotten words. His large hand firmly grabs a clot of hair from the back of her head and presses his face to hers. He moves his rough lips against her lips, along her throat, until her shoulder. He pushes his body against hers, pulling her little pelvis bones up into his by lifting her by her ass. He steps into the bath, splashing water all over the room with big sneakers still on his feet, and presses her up against the wall. Tears are streaming down her face and just as she thinks to call for help, the left hand from behind her head finds her jaw and squeezes.


He removes his hand from behind her, holding her up only by the squeeze of her legs on his waist and the pressure of his body on hers, and begins to undress himself. By the time his light blue shirt is off, little Elizabeth has sunken her little teeth into his beefy hand and he’s withdrawn his hand in pain. She belts out a scream as loud as she can but hardly a squeak has left her lips before his hand slaps the whole of her head sideways into the tiles, chipping her front tooth. The metallic taste fills her mouth. Blood stains her lips. Anger so fierce it consumes her whole body builds in her bruised arms. And somehow she is standing and he is up on his knees. And somehow her hands are around his neck. And somehow how his head has been bashed in by the porcelain. And somehow his blood coats her arms. And somehow she likes it.