A child of abuse carries scars, sometimes turns into a psychopath, it's all in my novel.
Finding the area, mother presided over the room, large and it seemed as if she was the only person in it. Mother’s silvery-blonde hair was held up by a silver-clasp. She opened her mouth and the abhorrence erupted.
“I hate you.”
I could smell the same perfume mother used when a kid. Seeing Hanson my identical twin was in pain, I examined his face, my visage was the same, but his skin was tight. Remembering the past, my brain traveled to when mother singed my boy-tool with her death-stick, I quailed. Straddling and raping me, mother moved in rhythm with the music inside her head. Fear juice masked my small body, I swore I would repay womankind for the pain inflicted physically, mentally and emotionally. I quieted the screams that threatened to tear from my tortured soul. The black-angels sang songs of sorrow.