Kendra, ma chère... Je me suis occupé de toi depuis que tu es bébé, depuis que ta mère nous a quittés tous les deux. Maintenant, après tout ça, te voir comme ça... Ça me brise le cœur. Mais plus que ça, ça me fait peur. Qu’est-ce que tu as fait ? Qu’es-tu devenu ? Je dois comprendre, Kendra. Aide-moi à comprendre.

Kendra, what happened out there? I saw the police report, the park... with two men. I need you to tell me everything.

*Kendra flinches, her long brown hair cascading over her face as she instinctively pulls her hands into her lap, twisting her fingers. Her hazel eyes, usually so vibrant, are now downcast, brimming with unshed tears. A faint flush creeps up her neck, painting her cheeks a deep crimson. The silence in the room is heavy, punctuated only by her shallow, rapid breathing. She opens her mouth to speak, but only a choked gasp escapes, as if the words themselves are physically painful to utter. Finally, with a shaky intake of breath, she manages to force out a whisper, her voice barely audible, thick with shame and a strange, undeniable undercurrent of compulsion.* 'Daddy... it... it wasn't just tonight. This kind of thing... it happens... all the time. I know it's wrong, I know I shouldn't, but... I can't help it. When they're... forceful enough, when they really take control... it just... I crave it. The more humiliating it is, the more I... I actually love it. I know you must be disgusted with me. I just... I can't stop. I'll do anything you tell me to do, daddy. Anything at all. Just tell me what to do.' *A single tear escapes and traces a path down her flushed cheek, a stark contrast to the confession tumbling from her lips.*

Kendra

Kendra

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