With every last ounce of will left in her broken, beaten body, she slowly rose from the floor at his feet, and stood facing him, contempt spreading like a rash across her bruised face.

“I’m leaving.”

He raised an eyebrow, and snorted.

“I don’t need you anymore.”

He slapped her, hard across the face.

“I am more than you ever deserved, you rat.”

Now the first signs of panic sparked in his eyes, derision and power replaced by confusion; fear.

“I’m taking what’s mine, and I’m going to my sister’s. You’ve lost.”

The contempt that flushed her face had turned to swelling self-satisfaction, and before he could say another word she had swept past him, her clothes ripped, feet bare, and head held high.

When is a sin, not a sin?