Guilty | ✓

XVIII | Guilty

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SLUT AND A LADY

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"KILL HER."

Twelve-year old Genevieve gasped, her gaze snapping to her parents. Her father standing crossed armed, his usual stoic expression painted in his features.

Genevieve couldn't see anything in his dark morbid eyes, not sadness, no remorse, not even doubt. The only thing given was cruelty.

Her mother was standing behind him with a blank expression. She never moved as she watched her daughter getting beaten, she looked blankly, never a word coming out of her lips—the sounds of the brunette's blood-curdling screams sounding the room.

Loraine, her mother, stepped forward slamming a gun against Genevieve's chest while giving her a dominant look.

She was used to inhumanity her parents radiated; they didn't give a fuck if someone they killed had a family or if simply they killed someone who was not guilty—someone who didn't deserve the fate that the Romano's reserved specifically.

The brunette, better much preferred being her family's little toy to be abused rather for them to grab any other child and receive her destiny.

"Kill her," Loraine insisted, her hand pushing the gun even more against Genevieve as she lifted a challenging eyebrow. "Or, your siblings get killed."

Genevieve widened her eyes, her gaze snapping from her mother's insistence to Emmy—who stood petrified as her eyes trained on the black slick weapon.

"No," Genevieve said, firmly.

Loraine smirked, although timid hints could be caught in her dark auburn eyes—very different from the brunette's light periwinkle ones. "No."

"Oh," continued Loraine, her words drawing out through the tip of her snake-like tongue. "I see how it is."

Quickly, the woman ripped the gun off her daughter's hands and swiftly pointed behind her, her pointer finger pressing lightly against the trigger.

Genevieve gawked as she saw her mother point the gun at Isabelle and Vienna, who stood behind a pillar, their heads poking out in a small frightened matter.

"NO!" Genevieve yelled as she took the gun from her mother's grasp, the brunette could feel the heavy weight of the metal against her small twelve year-old hands.

Loraine patted her daughter's head as if she was a pet—a motion that Genevieve couldn't help but despise. "Good girl."

Raising the gun, much to the brunette's many efforts. The weapon wasn't the most particularly easy to hold up, especially when your arms resemble a limp noodle.

She could see Emmy's eyes widen a fraction when she noticed the gun. Genevieve gave her a pleading look, her eyes swarming in billions of different apologies for her friend.

"Please, Gen, please! Don't do it!"

With no hesitation, Genevieve pulled the trigger; a blood-screeching gunshot mixing with Emmy's merciful screams. The walls pounded with the echoes of the cold blooded shrieks.