Grace had stopped eating.
“That poor fish,” she’d say. That poor cow, that poor baby pig, that poor everything.
After Grace’s newfound sympathy, Mom started locking my door at night. I would hear stifled screams and loud thumps. “She’s just hormonal. It’s part of becoming a woman,” Mom would say on the other side of my door.
The night Mom forgot to set the locks I wandered into Grace’s room. A man laid unconscious, covered in blood, his severed hand between Grace’s teeth.
“That poor guy,” I said before quietly returning to my room. Thankfully, I still had three years left.