My stepfather b/e/@t my twin sister and me every day because our fear gave him pleasure. One night, he b/e/@t us both unconscious, dragged us into the emergency room while my mother whispered, “They fell down the stairs.” The doctor examined the identical bruises on our bodies, locked the door, and told the security guard, “Call 911, immediately.”

The last thing I heard before darkness swallowed me was my twin sister, Chloe, screaming my name. The last thing I saw was our stepfather smiling as if her terror were applause.

Arthur Vance never struck us because he lost control. Control was the entire point. He chose the hour, closed the curtains, removed his wedding ring, and told our mother to turn up the television. Then he made Chloe and me stand side by side while he decided which of us would suffer first.

We were seventeen, identical enough to confuse teachers, but Arthur always knew us apart. Chloe begged. I stared. He hated my silence most.