With her work done, she sat on the sofa, the one piece of furniture she’d spared.

Scott was going to pretend he didn’t deserve this. He’d already started, asking her why she was doing this. He was acting like he didn’t know. But he did, and really it made no difference if he admitted it or not.

A small voice whispered from deep inside, telling her he couldn’t admit it. But she ignored it. It was wrong. She’d seen it herself. She’d taken care of the complications. Casey was an expert at walling off certain parts of her mind and letting others flourish; she’d survived more than most people could imagine. That was why almost everybody was just terrible to be around: the assumption they deserved to be unbroken.

This mental control was what made her so much cleverer than everybody else; it was what made life so fun.

She rose when the front door opened, walking into the hallway. Scott paused. He looked at the shattered mirror that lay directly beneath him, at the ornaments scattered everywhere. “What happened?”

“I trashed the place. You’re going to have it spotless by the time I get home.”

“Why?”

“You and your whys. You’re missing the point. I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

He stared, trying so desperately to appear innocent. But there was no such thing as innocence. It was just a word to describe something which existed only in people’s minds. Or, if it was real, it was only there so somebody could take it. That was all. There was no in-between.

Scott looked like he might cry again. He wasn’t a manly man at all.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She was going to pick up some weed and have a smoke as she walked along the Bristol waterfront, but she wouldn’t tell him that. He didn’t even know she smoked. Let him imagine she was out plotting more schemes, more ways to hurt him. Like he’d hurt others – and the rest, the disconnect, the issues, the obstacles? Casey used her magic trick; she walled it away. No need to think about it.

His shoes crunched over the broken glass. He paused inches from her. He reeked of booze. “Is the rest of the house like this?”

“It’s worse.”

“It’s going to take hours. I’ve got school in the morning.”

“How is that my problem?”

He tried to glare, but he looked more like a pouting child. “This is so bloody immature.”

“I don’t care.”

“But why?”

Casey waved her hand, coming close to his face, just about missing. She hadn’t struck him yet. “Because I can. Because I want to. Because I’m in charge. You’re so slow and boring and, urgh, just get out of my way.”

He didn’t move.

Casey smirked. “Are you going to hit me, big man? I bet you want to. I bet it’s all you can think about. The sound your fist would make as it crushes against my cheek. The feel of your knuckle cracking against my face. I bet it makes you hard, doesn’t it?”