Well, you're not yet twenty, and already your life feels like a raw wound, like an injury pricked and ground by so many for so long from so many angles that it's not even something you can call your own any more, like it's been circumscribed. All you've got left is the sensation, the pain it causes; and that's a trite way of putting it, yes, and a while ago that would have bothered you, but you've stopped caring about that sort of thing now.
Growing up was Hell, worse than Hell; your siblings were brilliant, beautiful bastards; they treated you like dirt, treated you worse than that idiot man-child. Harold especially, Harold especially; you hate him so much it makes you want to vomit. Growing up on Cairn Hill was like being strapped naked to the ground in a hail-storm that never seemed to end. No wonder you grew up to be such a sick bitch.
Ah, but you have grown up; you're mature now, and strong and taut as a flexed muscle. You are not a child anymore, you are not a weak youth defined by your presence in their house; you have reserves now, strength beyond the scopes of their games. You have your own secrets now, too, and you've done things that would make Harold blanche.
Now the power is yours, now it is they who will suffer. As soon as Daddy is dead, you'll show them what it's like, how hard it's been. You'll rip them to shreds and devour the pieces, soon. Soon. You're salivating already.
An explanation of what a Revenant is.
The picture, betty1.jpeg, top, is a focus from "Portrait of the Artist's Wife" by Allan Ramsay; and the picture, betty2.jpeg, just above, is a family photograph. So far as I am aware, the first is in the Public Domain; the second is certainly in the Public Domain, since I put it there.
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