The guards walked up to the cell. Inside, sitting on her bed, Clove stared at the ceiling, waiting to be cuffed and dragged to the psychiatrist. Again. She screamed and bit and kicked, but the guards managed to cuff her. Like always. They brought her to the room and secured her to the chair so that bitch could come in and ask her the same question she always asked: Are you ready to talk about what you did?

As if on cue, the woman strolled into the room and sat down at her desk.

"Hello Clove. How are you?"

Her question was met with a glare that would instill fear in most people. But not Dolores McWillams, who was far too optimistic and dim-witted to understand Clove's hatred.

"I see you must be feeling a bit grumpy today. How about you tell me why you're feeling mad today?"

Nothing from Clove, only the same glare. Dolores's lipsticked smile faltered slightly as she realized she wasn't going to get anywhere with Clove today.

"Well, today I'm feeling happy! And I think that if you open up to me a little, I can get you to be happy in no time! So what do you say, huh Clove?"

Clove slowly turned her head and smiled sweetly at Dolores.

"Well, you know what I think? I think that having a chat with the fucking stupidest woman I have ever met is only going to infuriate me more. Infuriate means to make me angry. And we don't want that, do we?"

Still smiling, Clove turned her head back to facing the wall, leaving a terrified Dolores to make small talk with her. However, Clove easily droned her out. Instead, she thought about her family.

A tiny Clove stepped into the room where her mother sat, smoking and watching T.V.. "Mommy?"

The woman turned to look at her littlest daughter and resisted the urge to hit the whiny little brat.

"Go bother someone else, you whiny little shit. I don't feel like dealing with your crap."

Silently, Clove walked back into the hallway.

Clove knew the smell of alcohol well by the time she was eight years old. Her father almost always reeked of it. But even if he didn't, she still wanted to be far away from him. One day, he beckoned her to come. Clove expected to be hit, but still she went to him. Instead, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to his room. He threw her into his bed, and with horror she struggled as he pulled off her pants. No matter how much she screamed, no one tried to help her...

When she was fifteen, her father beat her again. She was used to beatings from her mother, but ever since the day he raped her, Clove's father didn't hit her for fear that his toy could break. But Clove refused to kiss him. So he decided to teach his little bitch a lesson. He said he'd stop when she cried. She never cried, though, so he only stopped when she was about to break. He left her on the bed, broken and bruised, and it was then that Clove decided to kill him. Later that night, she took the sharpest, most beautiful knife from her collection and put it into her pocket. As she walked up beside the man, passed out and drunk, she drew the knife and slowly sliced open his neck, his stomach, his face. Clove finished with a long cut to his chest, and left the room, happy for the first time in her life.