Chapter Text
The Family Tradition
by
aperverylittleperson1990
"Smells like bleach and burnt toast." Kelly shoved her phone into her hoodie pocket, her voice flat. "Why does this kitchen always smell like bleach and burnt toast?"
Sharan didn't look up from peeling potatoes over the sink. Water sloshed into the basin, carrying away thin ribbons of brown skin. "Because your father tried making French toast yesterday morning before his shift. Used the cast iron skillet without oil. Again." She paused, the knife hovering above the pale flesh of the potato. A drop of water traced a path down her wrist, disappearing under the cuff of her flannel shirt. "And I scrubbed the countertops afterward. Thoroughly."
Kelly leaned against the fridge, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her gaze drifted to the calendar pinned beside the humming appliance—a generic landscape photo of mountains obscured by thick clouds. Red circles marked Mike's offshore rig schedule. Her knuckles went pale where they dug into her sleeves. "He didn't even ask." The words came out low, rough. "Just... did it."
Sharan laid the knife down gently on the cutting board. She turned, drying her hands on a faded dish towel embroidered with sunflowers. Her eyes, the same sharp green as Kelly's, held no judgment. Only a strange, heavy calm. "He wouldn't ask," she said simply. "That's not how it works for us. Not how it worked for my mother, or hers." A faint, almost wistful smile touched her lips. "You know what comes next, Kel."
Kelly pushed off the fridge, the sudden movement making the appliance hum louder. Her jaw tightened. "The Tradition." It wasn't a question. The word hung between them, thick as the smell of bleach. She'd heard the stories whispered at family gatherings, seen the strange reverence in her grandmother's eyes. But it had always felt like folklore, something dusty and distant. Not *this*. Not her mother standing calmly in their messy kitchen.
Sharan nodded, folding the dish towel with deliberate precision. "The attic," she said, her voice unnervingly steady. "Top shelf of the cedar wardrobe. Behind the box of my old dance costumes." A flicker of something—pride? anticipation?—crossed her face. "You'll find Grandmother's tools. The bone-handled knives, the garrote wire... and the journal. It details the requirements. Slow. Deliberate. Painful enough to satisfy the Pact." She met Kelly's stunned gaze directly. "I know you have read it and know those requirement, you knew them when you started having sex with your father months ago, it is time to carry out the tradition now that your father has knocked you up."
Kelly's throat tightened, the bleach smell suddenly acrid. Her fingers twitched against her hoodie fabric—not white-knuckled, just restless. "Why?" The word scraped out. "Why would you *want* this?" The image of her mother calmly directing her towards instruments of torture clashed violently with the woman who’d bandaged skinned knees and packed school lunches.
Sharan sighed, a soft sound lost beneath the fridge's hum. She reached out, not touching Kelly, but tracing the air near her daughter’s clenched fist. "It's not about wanting, Kel. It's... woven into us. Like the red hair, or Grandma's crooked smile." Her gaze drifted past Kelly, towards the hallway leading to the attic stairs. "Every woman back to the first crossing carries it. When the daughter blooms with the father's seed... the mother makes room. She *clears* the space. Physically." A flicker of something ancient and fierce passed through her calm. "It’s the ultimate transfer. Power, position, responsibility... purified through pain. My pain." She straightened, the wistfulness gone, replaced by unnerving resolve. "I am ready now. Truly."
Without another word, Sharan gripped the hem of her worn flannel shirt and tugged it sharply upwards, peeling it off over her head in one fluid motion. The faded sunflower towel lay forgotten on the counter. Next came her jeans, unbuttoned and pushed down her hips to pool around her ankles. She stepped out of them, kicking the denim aside onto the bleach-scented linoleum. Standing only in simple cotton underwear, her pale skin faintly freckled, she looked both vulnerable and utterly unyielding. The kitchen air felt suddenly colder. She didn't shiver. Instead, she turned and walked barefoot towards the hallway, her movements deliberate, unhurried. The wooden stairs creaked softly under her weight as she began her ascent towards the attic, her bare shoulders squared.
Kelly watched, rooted to the spot near the humming fridge. Her mother's retreating form, the stark vulnerability of bare skin against the dim hallway shadows, felt like a physical blow. The casualness of the undressing, the absolute lack of ceremony, was more terrifying than any dramatic pronouncement. This wasn't a ritual; it was a resignation. A door closing. Kelly’s gaze dropped to the discarded clothes on the floor – the flannel shirt her father often borrowed, the jeans stained with garden dirt. Symbols of a life being shrugged off. "Mom!" The name tore from her throat, raw and desperate, shattering the heavy silence. "Stop! Just... talk to me!"
Sharan paused halfway up the attic stairs, her hand resting lightly on the worn wooden banister. She turned slowly, her expression serene, almost peaceful, illuminated by the weak light filtering from the kitchen. Her green eyes met Kelly’s frantic ones. "I want this," she said, her voice low and utterly convincing. It wasn't defiance; it was certainty. "Deep down, Kelly, I know you want it too. The Tradition isn't just duty; it's… liberation. For both of us." A faint, genuine smile touched her lips, incongruous against the grim promise. "So please, don't hold back. Give me what the Pact demands." She tilted her head slightly, the smile widening just a fraction. "Besides," she added, her tone suddenly lighter, almost conspiratorial, "I think it might be fun. Finding out how far I can go."
The word "fun" hung in the air, absurd and chilling. It wasn’t a joke; it felt like a glimpse into a core belief Kelly had never understood. Her mother’s calm wasn't resignation—it was *eagerness*. The frantic protest died in Kelly’s throat, replaced by a cold, creeping numbness. The bleach smell seemed to intensify, mingling with the damp wood scent drifting down from the attic. Sharan didn’t wait for a reply. She resumed her climb, bare feet padding softly on the creaking steps, her pale shoulders disappearing into the gloom.
Kelly moved without conscious thought. Her legs carried her past the discarded clothes on the linoleum, past the humming fridge humming, towards the hallway. The attic stairs groaned under her weight, louder than they had for her mother. Above, a single bare bulb cast harsh light on dust motes swirling around Sharan, who stood beside an ancient cedar wardrobe. Its doors were already open, revealing shadowed shelves stacked with faded fabrics and a long, slender wooden box. Sharan’s hand rested gently on its lid, her expression serene. "Grandmother always said the anticipation sharpens the senses," she murmured, her voice echoing slightly in the confined space. "The Pact demands presence, Kelly. Not hesitation."
Kelly reached the top step, the bleach smell replaced by dry wood and something faintly metallic. She met her mother’s unnerving calm. "I wouldn't let you down, Mother," Kelly stated, the words feeling strangely formal, automatic. Her voice didn't waver.
"Good." Sharan smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across her face. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Kelly's cheek. Her skin felt cool against Kelly's own flushed skin. "Don't let yourself down either," Sharan murmured, pulling back slightly, her green eyes intense. "Enjoy this!" The encouragement was bright, almost giddy, utterly incongruous with the cedar wardrobe looming behind her.
Kelly felt a strange lightness bloom in her chest, a release of tension she hadn't fully acknowledged. The suffocating dread lifted, replaced by a curious focus. Her fingers, no longer restless, found the cool brass latch of the long wooden box. It clicked open smoothly. Inside, nestled in faded velvet, lay Grandmother's tools: a bone-handled filleting knife gleaming dully, a coiled length of thin wire like a sleeping serpent, and a thick, leather-bound journal. "I will," Kelly replied, her voice steady, a faint, almost reflexive smile touching her lips as she lifted out the journal. Its cover felt like old skin.
Sharan gestured eagerly towards the rafters above them, thick wooden beams crusted with dust and cobwebs. "Okay. Let's get this show on the road," she chirped, her eyes bright. "I want to be dead by the time your father gets home from work. Start by tying my hands to those rafters above my head," she instructed, pointing upwards. "So I'll be hanging off the floor like a piece of meat. You can find rope and a step ladder in the wardrobe." Kelly obeyed without hesitation, moving to the wardrobe's recesses. Her fingers closed around coarse, thick hemp rope and the cold metal frame of a folding step ladder. The rope smelled faintly of mildew and old sweat.
Kelly unfolded the ladder beneath the central rafter with practiced efficiency, its hinges groaning softly. Sharan climbed up first, surprisingly agile, her bare feet finding purchase on the rungs. She stretched her arms high, wrists pressed together. "Tight, Kel," she murmured, a thrill in her voice. "Make sure I can't slip." Kelly looped the rope expertly around her mother's wrists, pulling the knots firm and secure against the rough wood beam. The hemp rasped against Sharan's skin as Kelly tugged the loose end, hoisting her upwards inch by straining inch until her toes barely brushed the dusty floorboards. Sharan swayed gently, suspended, her weight settling onto her bound wrists. A soft sigh escaped her lips – contentment, not pain. "Perfect," she breathed, looking down at Kelly with a radiant smile. "Feels like flying."
Stepping off the ladder, Kelly surveyed her mother hanging before her. The vulnerability was absolute: the pale arc of Sharan's throat exposed, the faint tremor in her suspended legs, the way her simple cotton underwear clung damply where sweat already bloomed. But it was the utter serenity on her face, the eager light in her green eyes, that ignited something cold and sharp within Kelly’s chest. It wasn't anger, not exactly. It was a sudden, visceral understanding of the power now coiled in her own hands. "I may have some fun," Kelly stated, her voice low and devoid of its earlier tremor. She picked up the bone-handled filleting knife from the open box, its weight cool and familiar in her palm. "Make this *painful*."
A soft gasp escaped Sharan, sharp and sudden. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating in the dim attic light. Her breath hitched, then resumed faster, shallower. A flush spread across her chest, climbing her neck. "Please do," she breathed, the words thick with anticipation. Her bound wrists strained slightly against the rope, not in resistance, but as if yearning towards the blade. "I've dreamed of this day since you were born, Kelly. Sixteen years waiting." Her voice dropped to a husky whisper, trembling with fervor. "Use me. However you wish. I’m yours."
Kelly nodded, her thumb tracing the smooth bone handle. For a fleeting heartbeat, she pictured herself suspended just like her mother was now, with another little girl looking up at her holding the knife. If the baby in Kelly's body was a girl would Kelly some day be letting her own daughter do to her what she was currently doing to her own mother?
Kelly pushed the thought aside and focused on the task in front of her. She brought her knee up and jabbed it sharply into her mother's belly, causing Sharan to cry out in pain—a sharp, ragged gasp that echoed off the rafters. Sharan's suspended body jerked violently, swinging like a pendulum on the rope. "Oh! Ohhhh!" she moaned, her voice thick with agony, but beneath it vibrated unmistakable pleasure. Sweat slicked her forehead, plastering strands of red hair to her temples. Her eyes squeezed shut, then flew open, locking onto Kelly’s with desperate intensity. "Again! Harder!"
Kelly obeyed instantly, ramming her knee upwards again with brutal force. This time, Sharan screamed—a raw, tearing sound that bounced off the dusty attic walls. Blood trickled from her nose, dripping onto her bare chest. Kelly felt a tremor run through her own arm, not from fear, but from a sudden surge of fierce exhilaration. She slammed her knee into Sharan’s abdomen again, and again, each impact a wet, sickening thud against yielding flesh. Sharan’s cries became ragged sobs interspersed with gasps of "Yes!" Her bound wrists strained against the rope, her body convulsing with each blow. Kelly paused, breathing hard, staring at the ruin she was making of her mother’s midsection. Bruises bloomed violently across Sharan’s pale skin, already swelling and discolored. "I am destroying the very womb I came from!" Kelly stated sharply, her voice cold and clear, cutting through her mother’s whimpers. She jabbed her fingers hard into Sharan’s lower belly, feeling the yielding softness beneath the skin. "I am ruining you so even if you were to survive this, you could never bear children again!" A fierce grin twisted Kelly’s lips. "If Dad wants more kids, he’ll have to come to me!"
Kelly’s fist snapped out without warning, knuckles cracking sharply against Sharan’s jaw. Her mother’s head snapped sideways, blood spraying from her split lip. "You know Dad told me," Kelly hissed, her voice low and venomous, "that I am way better at giving him pleasure than you ever were." She leaned in close, her breath hot against Sharan’s ear. "So it seems you fail in your duty as a wife." Sharan gasped, her eyes widening—not in pain, but in sudden, fierce pride. A choked, gurgling laugh bubbled up from her throat. "He… he said that?" she rasped, blood flecking her teeth. Her gaze locked onto Kelly’s, blazing with triumph. "Good! Oh, Kelly… that’s so good!" She strained against her bonds, arching her bruised torso towards her daughter. "Prove him right! Show me how much better you are!"
Kelly grabbed Sharan’s jaw, forcing her head back to face her directly. Her thumb dug into the bruise blooming on her mother’s cheekbone. "I *will*," Kelly stated with a proud smirk. "After I finish punishing you for being a failure," she spat the word, "I will have sex with him all night, and I will do it every night any way he wants!" Her grip tightened, fingers sinking into Sharan’s sweat-slicked hair. She yanked her mother’s head closer until their noses almost touched. Sharan’s eyes swam with tears of ecstatic pain. "Maybe," Kelly whispered, her voice dropping to a chilling, intimate rasp, "I will even cut off your head and mount it on the dresser in the bedroom." She tilted her mother’s head slightly, examining the pale column of her throat. "So it will be there… watching a real woman please her man every night."
Kelly’s knee snapped up with brutal precision, driving hard into Sharan’s exposed groin. A wet, sickening crunch echoed through the attic, louder than Sharan’s choked scream. Her suspended body convulsed violently, legs kicking uselessly in the air. Blood bloomed instantly, soaking through the thin cotton underwear and dripping onto the dusty floorboards below. "YES!" Sharan shrieked, her voice ragged and ecstatic. Tears streamed freely down her face, mingling with the blood from her nose and lip. She gasped for breath, her chest heaving. "Punish me! Punish me for failing as a woman!" she cried, her voice thick with agony and fervor. "The only good thing I ever did… was give your father a real woman to please him!" Her bound wrists strained against the rope, pulling her torso forward in a desperate, pleading arc. "Use the whip! The whip in the wardrobe! Punish me properly!"
Kelly stalked to the cedar wardrobe, her movements sharp and purposeful. She rummaged past faded dance costumes smelling faintly of mothballs and lavender, her fingers closing around stiff, weathered leather. She pulled out an old bullwhip, its braided length dark with age and oil, the handle worn smooth by generations of hands. She weighed it thoughtfully, the leather creaking softly. "I assume someday my own daughter will be using this on me," Kelly observed, her voice detached, analytical. She flicked the whip experimentally; it cracked like a gunshot in the confined space, sending dust motes swirling violently. "But today," she said, turning back to her suspended mother, her eyes cold and focused, "I get to use it on *you*." Without hesitation, she brought the whip down in a vicious arc. The leather tip sliced across Sharan’s face with a wet thwack, tearing a deep, bloody gash running from her left eye down to her chin.
"That cut looks so good on your face mother," Kelly hissed, an evil grin spreading across her features as she admired her handiwork. Blood welled thickly from the wound, dripping steadily onto Sharan’s heaving chest. "I think you need some on your ass to match it!" Kelly walked deliberately behind her mother, the whip dragging across the dusty floorboards. Sharan whimpered, twisting futilely against her bonds to glimpse her daughter. Kelly raised the whip high and brought it down again and again across Sharan’s exposed buttocks and thighs with relentless fury. Each impact landed with a sickening crack followed by a sharp gasp or choked cry from Sharan. The coarse cotton underwear offered no protection; the leather tore through fabric and skin alike, leaving crisscrossed welts that immediately bloomed crimson. Blood seeped freely, running down Sharan’s trembling legs to pool beneath her dangling toes.
Sharan could only swing there, suspended by her wrists, her entire body shuddering with each blow. Her cries were ragged symphonies of agony layered with unmistakable, guttural pleasure. "Kel—Kelly!" she gasped between strikes, her voice thick and wet. "More! Oh god, *yes*!" Her hips bucked instinctively towards the pain, her back arching to present the ruined flesh more fully. The rope groaned against the rafter as she strained, not away, but *into* the whip’s bite. Tears streamed freely down her face, mingling with the blood from her facial wound. Her skin glistened everywhere with sweat and blood, the air thick with the sharp tang of copper and the dry scent of disturbed dust.
Kelly abruptly ceased the flogging. She grabbed her mother’s bruised shoulder, spinning the suspended woman roughly to face her. Sharan gasped, her body swaying violently on the rope, her eyes wide and unfocused for a moment before locking onto Kelly’s. Blood dripped steadily from her chin onto her heaving chest. Kelly leaned in, her face inches from her mother’s ravaged one. "Dad told you," Kelly hissed, her voice low and dangerous, devoid of any tremor now. "He told you about this tradition before you married him. Knew it was coming." Her green eyes, identical to Sharan’s but colder, bored into her mother’s. "So why? Why marry into this family knowing *this*," she gestured savagely at Sharan’s bleeding, welted body hanging helplessly before her, "was your fate?" Before Sharan could draw breath to answer, Kelly snapped the whip upwards. The leather tip cracked across Sharan’s exposed breasts, tearing through the thin cotton bra and leaving twin, bleeding stripes. Sharan screamed, a raw, tearing sound that echoed off the attic beams, her body convulsing against the ropes.
Sharan swung there, gasping, trying to collect her thoughts through the haze of agony. Blood trickled into her mouth. She choked back a sob, her voice thick and wet when she finally spoke. "Because I love him," she rasped, each word labored. "And the only thing I ever truly wanted... was to serve him." Her eyes, despite the pain, held a fierce devotion. Another vicious blow from Kelly landed squarely across her thighs, reopening a welt. Sharan screamed again, her body jerking wildly. When the scream subsided into ragged pants, she forced the words out, her voice trembling but defiant. "Because... coming from my rich family... where I was treated like a princess... told I *had* to be a leader... told I *had* to be important... I wanted to truly shock them!" A hysterical, choked laugh bubbled up, mingling with blood and spit. "Marrying Mike... agreeing to *this*... was the ultimate rebellion!"
"Is that all?!" Kelly demanded, her voice sharp and impatient. She brought the whip down again, deliberately targeting the deep gash on Sharan's face. The leather tip caught the edge of the wound, tearing it wider. Fresh blood sprayed, spattering Kelly's cheek and the dusty floorboards. Sharan’s shriek was guttural, primal. Her suspended body bucked violently against the ropes. "Is that the pathetic reason?" Kelly hissed, stepping closer, the whip hanging limply at her side. She grabbed Sharan’s chin, forcing her mother’s bleeding face towards her. "You threw your life away... subjected yourself to *this*... just to piss off Grandma?" Kelly’s grip tightened, her nails digging into bruised flesh. "Tell me!"
Sharan gasped, struggling for breath through the pain and blood trickling down her throat. Her eyes, glazed with agony, locked onto Kelly’s with sudden, fierce clarity. "No!" she rasped, her voice ragged but firm, cutting through her own whimpers. She spat out a mouthful of blood onto the floorboards beneath her dangling feet. "I did it because I wanted to *feel* like a woman!" Her chest heaved. "My mother... my professors... everyone... told me I had to act like a man! Climb the corporate ladder! Fight tooth and claw in a man's world!" A choked sob escaped her, but her gaze burned with conviction. "Giving birth to your three brothers... giving birth to *you*... carrying Mike's children... and now..." She strained against her bonds, lifting her ruined torso slightly. "*This*... going through *this*... *This* made me feel like a woman! Truly! For myself!" Her voice cracked, but gained strength. "Not for Mike! Not to shock anyone! For *me*!"
Kelly stared, the whip hanging loosely in her hand. Her mother's words struck her with a force harder than any blow. The raw honesty, the desperate yearning behind them, pierced the haze of violence. For a heartbeat, Kelly saw not the bleeding sacrifice hanging before her, but the woman who'd taught her to ride a bike, who'd sung lullabies, who'd whispered secrets in the dark. The whip slipped from her fingers, hitting the dusty floorboards with a soft thud. "Goon answer," Kelly murmured, her voice low and thick. She sank to her knees in front of her suspended mother, her gaze fixed on Sharan's bruised and welted thighs. With trembling fingers, she grasped the blood-soaked remnants of the cotton underwear and ripped them away, tossing the rag aside. "For that," Kelly whispered, her voice trembling slightly, "I will give you a woman's reward."
Kelly leaned forward, pressing her lips gently against the bruised, swollen flesh just above Sharan's pubic mound. Her mother gasped, a shudder running through her suspended body. Kelly ignored the coppery tang of blood and sweat, focusing instead on the heat radiating from her mother's core. She kissed again, lower this time, a soft, deliberate press against the outer folds. Sharan whimpered, a sound that was pure need. Kelly traced a slow, wet path with her tongue along the tender, unbroken skin bordering the worst bruising, avoiding direct contact with the most damaged areas. Each gentle kiss, each soft flick of her tongue, was a stark contrast to the brutal violence moments before. Sharan's breath hitched, becoming shallow pants. Her hips strained forward against the ropes, seeking more contact, her entire body trembling with building tension.
Kelly intensified her ministrations, her tongue pressing more firmly, exploring the swollen folds with deliberate strokes. She found Sharan's clitoris, swollen and throbbing beneath its hood, and began circling it with focused pressure. Sharan cried out, a sharp, ragged sound that dissolved into a low, continuous moan. Her legs trembled violently. Tears streamed freely down her battered face, mixing with blood and sweat. "Thank you... Kelly... my girl... my strong girl..." Sharan whispered, her voice thick with emotion and physical sensation. Each word was gasped between shallow breaths. "Yes... oh god, yes... thank you... I love you... I love you..."
Kelly paused only for a split second, locking eyes with her suspended mother. Sharan's gaze was a storm of agony, ecstasy, and fierce maternal pride. Then, with sudden, decisive force, Kelly leaned forward and bit down hard on Sharan's exposed clitoris. Her teeth sank into the hypersensitive flesh.
Sharan's entire body snapped taut against the ropes. A guttural scream ripped from her throat, instantly morphing into a deafening roar of pure, shuddering climax. Her hips bucked violently, uncontrollably, against the brutal pressure of Kelly's teeth. Jets of fluid – clear, viscous, and smelling sharply of sex and sweat – sprayed outwards, soaking Kelly's face, hair, and neck in a warm, sticky deluge. Sharan's voice tore through the attic, raw and ragged, each word thick with overwhelming sensation: "I LOVE YOU KELLY! YOU ARE MY PERFECT DAUGHTER! MY STRONG, BEAUTIFUL GIRL! THANK YOU! THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME FEEL!"
Kelly released her bite abruptly, pushing herself backwards onto her heels. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand, smearing blood, sweat, and her mother's fluids together. Sharan hung limp, gasping, shuddering violently with aftershocks, ropes groaning under her spasms. Her head lolled forward, chin resting on her bloody chest, breath coming in ragged, shallow gulps. Kelly stared at her mother's ruined form – the deep facial gash weeping steadily, the crisscrossed welts bleeding freely down her thighs, the swollen, bruised mound glistening wetly – and a fierce, possessive pride surged through her. Without warning, Kelly lunged forward. She grabbed Sharan's jaw, fingers digging into the bruise on her cheekbone, and hauled her mother's head up. Their eyes locked – Sharan's dazed and swimming in tears, Kelly's blazing with cold intensity. Then Kelly crushed her lips against Sharan's.
It wasn't a kiss; it was dominance. Kelly forced her tongue past Sharan's split, bloodied lips, invading her mouth with brutal pressure. She tasted iron, salt, and the faint sourness of fear beneath the lingering musk of her own climax. Sharan whimpered, a muffled sound trapped against Kelly's mouth, her bound body straining weakly against the ropes. Kelly deepened the kiss, biting Sharan's lower lip hard enough to draw fresh blood, her other hand tangling fiercely in her mother's sweat-soaked red hair, holding her head immobile. The kiss was savage, claiming, a physical assertion of the power Kelly now wielded. Sharan went utterly still, surrendering completely, her breath hitching in short, desperate gasps through her nose.
When Kelly finally ripped her mouth away, Sharan sagged in the ropes, gasping. Blood trickled from her freshly bitten lip. Her eyes, unfocused and swimming with tears, slowly locked onto Kelly's. A faint, blissful smile touched her swollen lips. "Thank you," she rasped, her voice shredded and thick. "Thank you... for giving me my final orgasm." She paused, drawing a ragged breath that rattled in her chest. "But now... it is time... to return to the pain." Her gaze drifted towards the filleting knife gleaming on the dusty floorboards near Kelly's knee. "Use the knife," she whispered, the plea fervent, desperate. "Cut it off. Cut off my clit. So I will never... never know such pleasure again. Only pain. Only service... until the end."
Kelly nodded slowly, her expression shifting from possessive fury to cold, detached purpose. She bent down, her fingers closing around the bone handle of the knife. The cool grip felt like an extension of her arm, a tool for completing the grim operation of law that governed their family. She rose smoothly, the blade catching the dim attic light. Without hesitation, without ceremony, she knelt before her mother's suspended hips. Her free hand parted the swollen, bruised folds, exposing the hypersensitive nub still throbbing from the brutal bite. Sharan whimpered, a sound of pure anticipation, her hips straining forward against the ropes, offering herself fully. Kelly positioned the knife's sharp edge precisely.
In one swift, surgical motion, Kelly obeyed. The blade sliced cleanly through the erect tissue. Sharan’s scream wasn’t pain—it was liberation, a raw, guttural roar that shook the rafters. Blood pulsed instantly, a bright crimson fountain spraying Kelly’s face, neck, and the dusty floorboards beneath them. The severed flesh fell onto the wood with a soft, wet plop. Sharan convulsed violently, her entire body shuddering against the ropes as if electrocuted. Tears of pure ecstasy streamed down her battered face, mingling with the fresh blood soaking her thighs. "Yes! YES!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with fervent joy. "Free! Oh god, Kelly… I’m finally free!" Her head lolled back, exposing her ravaged throat in a posture of utter surrender.
Kelly’s gaze drifted downward, past the pooling blood and the discarded knife. Near the wardrobe’s shadowed base, half-hidden beneath a scrap of torn cotton, lay a pair of worn, burgundy leather gloves. The stitching was frayed, the knuckles stained dark with old sweat and something darker. Recognition flickered coldly in her eyes. She yanked the filleting knife from Sharan’s thigh—ignoring her mother’s sharp gasp—and stalked over, kicking the fabric aside. She picked them up, the leather stiff yet yielding. "Dad’s old boxing gloves from college," Kelly observed flatly, turning them over in her hands. The smell of stale liniment and decades-old violence clung to them.
She let the knife clatter onto the dusty floorboards beside her. Slowly, deliberately, she worked her hands into the stiff leather gloves. The fit was snug, the padding thin and hardened with age. She flexed her fingers, feeling the rough grain bite into her knuckles, the ghost of Mike’s younger fists embedded in the leather. A grim satisfaction settled over her features. "These," she stated, her voice low and devoid of inflection, "should work well on you." She turned back towards Sharan, the gloves making her hands look unnaturally large and brutal.
Kelly planted her feet firmly on the dusty floorboards, drew back her gloved fist, and drove it straight into Sharan’s exposed stomach. The impact was solid, a muffled *thump* that drove the air from Sharan’s lungs in a sharp gasp. Before Sharan could recover, Kelly unleashed a barrage: gloved fists hammering ribs, shoulders, bruised breasts, thighs—anywhere flesh was exposed and vulnerable. Each blow landed with a sickening wet slap of leather against sweat-slicked, bleeding skin. Sharan’s suspended body jerked and twisted violently with each hit, ropes groaning under the strain. Blood sprayed from reopened wounds, speckling Kelly’s face and the gloves dark crimson. "HARDER!" Sharan screamed, her voice ragged and desperate, tears streaming freely. "Don't stop! Punish me harder!" Her eyes rolled back momentarily, then snapped forward, wild with pain-fueled ecstasy. "YES! LIKE THAT!"
Kelly obeyed, giving herself and Sharan the ultimate workout. Sweat poured down Kelly’s temples, soaking her shirt collar, her breath coming in harsh pants between punches. She pivoted slightly, driving a gloved fist deep into Sharan’s bruised flank. Bone cracked audibly beneath the leather padding. Sharan’s shriek dissolved into a wet, gurgling sob as she swung wildly. "I wonder," Kelly gasped out, pausing only to wipe sweat from her brow with a gloved forearm, leaving a smear of blood, "if my own daughter will want to use these on me someday." She delivered a brutal uppercut to Sharan’s jaw, snapping her mother’s head back violently. Blood flew from Sharan’s split lip. "I will have to keep them in a special place," Kelly continued, her voice thick with exertion, "so she’ll know exactly where to find them when the time comes." She resumed punching—ribs, belly, hips—with renewed ferocity, each blow punctuating her words.
Kelly stopped abruptly, her chest heaving. She stared at her mother’s swaying, broken form—the deep facial wound weeping steadily, the ribs visibly deformed beneath bruised skin, the blood dripping freely onto the dusty floor. A strange, anticipatory smile touched Kelly’s lips. "To tell the truth," she confessed, her voice low and surprisingly calm amidst the carnage, "the more I do this... the more I'm *looking forward* to being in your position someday." She chuckled then, a dark, humorless sound that echoed off the attic beams. Sharan’s swollen eyes widened fractionally, a flicker of understanding—and fierce pride—passing through the agony. Kelly began working the stiff boxing gloves off her hands, finger by finger. The leather peeled away with a sticky sound, revealing her knuckles raw and bloody beneath. She dropped the gloves onto the dusty floorboards beside the discarded knife. They landed with a soft thud, releasing a puff of ancient dust and the faint, sour ghost of Mike’s sweat.
Kelly crouched, her fingers closing once more around the bone handle of the filleting knife. The cool grip felt familiar now, inevitable. She rose smoothly, turning back to Sharan. "I guess," she mused, her voice detached, analytical, "that’s what they call the circle of life." She tilted her head, studying her mother’s suspended body—the ruined breasts, the bleeding thighs, the gaping wound where her clitoris had been. "I did it to you," Kelly stated flatly. "And someday..." Her gaze drifted downwards, settling momentarily on her own flat stomach where Mike’s child grew. "...*my* daughter will do it to me." The blade flashed dully as she stepped forward, positioning herself directly beneath Sharan’s dangling hips.
"I now need to do something just for me," Kelly announced, her voice slicing through the heavy air thick with blood and sweat. She reached up with her free hand, tangling her fingers deep into the sweat-soaked mass of Sharan’s long, flowing red hair. She gripped it hard, pulling Sharan’s lolling head upright. Sharan gasped weakly, her unfocused eyes struggling to meet Kelly’s. "You see, mother," Kelly hissed, leaning close enough to smell the iron tang on Sharan’s breath, "I have *always* been jealous of your hair." Her grip tightened, pulling painfully at the roots. "Mine," Kelly spat, a flicker of genuine resentment in her cold eyes, "just wouldn’t grow out thick and long like this. It always felt... thin. Weak." She gave the hair another vicious tug, making Sharan whimper. "So, before I finish you... I’ve decided to remove it." She raised the filleting knife, its edge catching the dim light.
Kelly pressed the blade flat against Sharan’s scalp, just above the hairline at her forehead. With deliberate roughness, she began to saw. Not slicing cleanly, but dragging the blade back and forth through the thick roots, tearing more than cutting. Sharan screamed, a ragged, tearing sound as the knife scraped bone beneath the skin. Blood welled instantly, streaming down Sharan’s face in bright crimson rivulets, mingling with the tears already staining her cheeks. Kelly ignored the cries, focused solely on the task. She hacked and pulled, ripping away large clumps of red hair tangled with flesh and blood. Each rough pull elicited fresh shrieks and violent jerks against the ropes. Dust motes danced in the disturbed air, settling onto the bloody scalp as Kelly worked her way around Sharan’s head, leaving raw, weeping patches behind.
It took agonizing minutes. Sharan’s screams faded into choked sobs, then into shallow, whimpering breaths as the sheer brutality overwhelmed her. Finally, Kelly stood back, breathing heavily. Sharan’s head was a grotesque ruin: patches of raw, bleeding scalp showing bone in places, a few stubborn tufts of red hair clinging to the edges, and the rest a ragged, bloody mess littering the floorboards like discarded fur. Kelly tossed the last clump aside, her knuckles aching from the grip on the knife handle. She wiped her brow with her forearm, smearing blood across her skin. "There," she stated flatly, her voice devoid of triumph. "Now you look like what you are. Nothing. Bald and broken."
Kelly reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. The cracked screen flickered to life. She tapped the camera icon, flipped it to face Sharan, and pressed record. The dim light caught Sharan’s ravaged face, the weeping scalp, the deep gash on her cheekbone. Kelly held the phone steady. "Look here," she commanded, her voice cold and clear. "Tell Dad, my brothers, and me exactly what you are." She shoved the phone closer, the lens inches from Sharan’s swollen, blood-crusted lips. "Say it."
Sharan’s chest heaved. Blood bubbled at the corner of her mouth as she drew a rattling breath. Her eyes, unfocused and swimming in tears, locked onto the phone’s lens. "I am nothing," she spat, the words thick with blood and conviction. Her voice trembled but gained strength, raw and ragged. "I am a woman who was only good for giving my husband sons and a daughter. A daughter who is better than me in every way." She paused, swallowing hard, a trickle of crimson sliding down her chin. "A daughter who is better looking, will serve her father better in the bedroom, and will give him stronger children than I ever could." Her gaze drifted past the phone to Kelly’s face, fierce pride blazing through the agony. "I want to thank my daughter for not holding back and showing me these truths about myself..." Her voice cracked, then rose, fervent and desperate. "...and I hope she brings my husband the pleasure I never could. I have served my only purpose and am ready to be disposed of—" She choked, blood spraying onto the phone screen. "Throw me out with the trash!"
Kelly stopped the recording. The screen went black. She slipped the phone back into her pocket without looking at it, her gaze fixed on Sharan’s ruined face. She reached out and patted Sharan’s blood-slicked cheek twice, the sound wet and sharp in the stillness. "Very good," Kelly murmured, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. She turned away, her boots crunching on the debris-strewn floorboards—clumps of hair, dried blood flakes, dust. She walked toward the heavy oak wardrobe looming in the corner, its dark wood scarred and splintered near the base. Kelly yanked open the creaking door. Inside, amidst moth-eaten blankets and forgotten sewing supplies, leaned a large woodcutter’s axe, its curved blade dull but heavy, the handle worn smooth with age. Kelly hefted it, the weight solid and grounding in her hands. She carried it back, the axe head scraping faintly against the floor.
Kelly stopped directly before her suspended mother. She raised the axe, holding it horizontally at chest height so Sharan could see the broad, stained blade clearly. "Do you like it?" Kelly asked, her tone conversational, almost curious. The axe head gleamed dully in the dim light, catching the crimson streaks already drying on its surface. Sharan’s swollen eyes tracked the weapon, a flicker of something—recognition, anticipation?—passing through the haze of pain. Her lips parted slightly, a bubble of blood forming and popping. Kelly shifted her grip on the worn wooden handle. "This," she stated, her voice hardening, "is the tool I have chosen to end your life with." She lowered the axe slightly, pointing the tip toward Sharan’s dangling feet. "Not quickly," Kelly added, a cold certainty settling into her words. "I am sure it will take a few blows." She paused, letting the implication hang thick in the air thick with copper and sweat. "But it will end your life."
Sharan’s gaze drifted from the axe blade to Kelly’s face. A faint, blissful smile touched her torn lips. Her voice, when it came, was a shredded whisper, barely audible above her own ragged breathing. "It’s perfect," she rasped. Tears welled anew, carving clean paths through the grime and blood on her cheeks. "My strong girl... using such a man’s tool... like your father..." Her breath hitched wetly. "So fitting... so right..." She strained weakly against the ropes, offering her hips forward slightly. "Do it... please..."
Kelly hefted the axe, her knuckles whitening around the worn wooden handle. The weight felt solid, purposeful. She planted her feet wide on the sticky floorboards, shifting her grip slightly. With a grunt of effort, she swung the axe sideways in a wide, brutal arc. The blade connected just above Sharan’s left knee with a sickening *thwack-crunch* of splitting bone and tendon. Sharan’s body jerked violently, a choked scream tearing from her throat as her leg buckled unnaturally. Blood, dark and arterial, pulsed out in thick spurts, splattering Kelly’s boots and the dusty floor. The severed limb dropped heavily, landing with a wet thud amidst the discarded hair and tools. Sharan hung suspended by her wrists, trembling violently, her remaining leg kicking spasmodically against the air.
Kelly lowered the axe head to the floor, leaning on the handle as she surveyed her handiwork. She nudged the twitching leg with her boot toe, rolling it slightly. A detached curiosity settled over her features. "I think," she observed calmly, a faint smile touching her lips as she watched the pooling crimson spread, "I will feed that to the dogs." She glanced up at Sharan’s contorted face, registering the agony etched there. "They haven’t had fresh meat in days. They’ll enjoy it." Sharan managed a weak, gurgling sound, her head lolling forward, tears mixing freely with the blood streaming down her face.
Without ceremony, Kelly raised the axe again. She shifted position, planting her feet firmly near Sharan’s dangling right side. The blade flashed upward in a swift, brutal arc aimed not at the torso, but higher. It connected squarely with Sharan’s upper arm, just below the shoulder joint. The impact was a wet, splintering crunch—bone yielding to sharpened steel. Sharan’s scream tore through the attic, raw and ragged, as her arm separated violently. It dropped heavily onto the pile of discarded hair and the severed leg below. Blood jetted from the ragged stump in pulsing arcs, spraying Kelly’s jeans and the dusty floorboards. Sharan’s remaining limbs flailed wildly against her bonds, ropes groaning under the renewed strain.
Kelly lowered the axe, its blade dripping crimson. She nudged the twitching arm with her boot, a detached curiosity settling over her features. "I wonder," she mused aloud, her voice unnervingly calm amidst the carnage, "what kinds of animals *my* daughter will feed *my* body parts to." She tilted her head, considering the mangled limb. "Maybe wolves? Or wild pigs? Something fierce." A dark chuckle escaped her lips. "Hey," she added, a spark of genuine amusement lighting her eyes, "maybe she’ll just cripple me first and let them eat me while I’m still breathing. That would be fun!" Her laughter echoed coldly off the rafters, mingling with Sharan’s choked, gurgling sobs.
She stepped back, hefting the axe thoughtfully. Sharan hung suspended, a grotesque ruin—one leg gone, one arm gone, blood cascading down her torso to pool on the floorboards beneath her. Her remaining limbs trembled uncontrollably against the ropes. Kelly’s gaze swept over her mother’s ravaged form, a fierce pride tightening her jaw. "Whatever she does," Kelly stated, her voice hardening into certainty, "I hope she improves on what I’ve done to you." A chilling smile touched her lips. "By the time it’s my turn, Daddy will have been training me to take pain for twenty years or more." She flexed her fingers around the axe handle, imagining her own future torment. "I’m sure I’ll be able to handle far more than you ever could." Sharan’s remaining eye, swollen almost shut, blinked slowly; a tear mixed with blood rolled down her cheek—whether from agony or fierce maternal approval, it was impossible to tell.
"Well," Kelly announced, her voice slicing through the thick air laced with copper and sweat, "it’s time to end our part in this family tradition." She stepped forward decisively, boots crunching on debris-strewn floorboards slick with blood. Positioning herself directly beneath Sharan’s dangling torso, she raised the heavy axe horizontally. The stained blade gleamed dully as she brought it level with her mother’s throat, the edge hovering inches from the bruised, pulsing skin. Sharan tilted her head back weakly, exposing her throat fully—a final, silent offering. Kelly braced her stance, muscles coiling. With a grunt of effort, she took a mighty, two-handed swing. The axe blade connected with a sickening *thwack-crunch* of splitting vertebrae and tearing flesh. Sharan’s head snapped backward violently, then tore free, flying in a crimson arc across the attic.
Kelly lowered the axe, its blade dripping heavily onto the pooling mess below. She watched dispassionately as Sharan’s headless body convulsed violently against the ropes, arterial spray jetting from the ragged stump in diminishing spurts before finally going limp. Silence descended, broken only by Kelly’s harsh breathing and the steady drip of blood onto the floorboards. She dropped the axe handle; it clattered loudly on the wood, releasing a puff of disturbed dust. For a long moment, Kelly stood perfectly still amidst the carnage—the severed limbs, the discarded hair, the brutalized torso swaying gently. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling the thick scent of iron and sweat deeply, as if committing it to memory. Then, with deliberate calm, she walked across the sticky floor, her boots leaving faint prints in the drying blood.
She stopped before her mother’s head. It lay tilted on its side, eyes wide and staring sightlessly towards the rafters, lips slightly parted in an expression that could have been agony or ecstasy. Kelly crouched slowly, the leather of her jeans protesting softly. She reached out, her fingers slick with gore, and gently turned the head to face her. The scalp was a ruin of raw patches and clinging blood-matted strands, the deep facial wound still weeping sluggishly. Kelly brushed a stray clot from Sharan’s cold cheekbone with surprising tenderness. She lifted the head carefully, cradling it in both hands, its weight surprisingly heavy. The severed neck stump was ragged and wet against her palms.
"Thank you," Kelly murmured, her voice low and rough, almost conversational. She brought the head closer, her thumbs tracing the curve of Sharan’s jawline. "For talking me into continuing our family tradition." She leaned forward slowly, deliberately. Her lips pressed firmly against Sharan’s cold, blood-crusted ones. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was possessive, final, sealing a pact written in pain and blood. Kelly lingered for a heartbeat, breathing in the metallic tang clinging to her mother’s skin, then pulled back. A faint smear of crimson remained on her own lips. She didn’t wipe it away.
As Kelly left the attic holding the head she had just one wish, that some day, after her turn in the tradition had come, that her own daughter would treasure her head the way she planned to treasure that of her mother. It would sit in a place of honor in a glass case in the bedroom she would now be sharing with her father for the rest of her life, maybe this would become part of their family tradition.
The End