He loathes how she looks at him, with eyes full of desire, hates how she uses him without thinking, without shame, like she has a right to fill the gap his father left with the body of her own son. He hates himself, how his flesh knows just how to react, where to touch, how to harden and do its job. He hates how it happens every day, how he is torn between love an hate for the woman who is his mother. At least, she has an excuse. She's out of her mind, crazed, gone insane after the bond of faith in her marriage was broken and she was presented with the fruit of passion that her husband left her.

But then... it's not that she's the only guilty part. There's always Jien's responsibility, what he did after he gained a sense of what she was doing, the wrongfulness of the thought, the act, the sensation, even the feeling. She doesn't know anything about that. She has no idea that Jien's only goal is to keep her away from little brother. If not for Gojyo, poor Gojyo - if only...

When he wakes that day, he can hear her screaming at little brother. "If only you were never born!"

Jien wonders what she would do if he and Gojyo ran away. Jien's old enough to take care of himself, and Gojyo's a clever kid. It would probably break little brother's heart. He knows that Gojyo doesn't understand her mindless hate. To him, she's mother dearest, the person he loves most, outside of Jien himself, perhaps. Gojyo only wants that woman to love him, wishing for the impossible, since she doesn't even love Jien, just wants Jien, owns Jien, uses Jien. Would she kill herself if he denied her his body? Part of him hopes so, hopes feverishly that she'll do just that, be out of his life and there's no need to look back.

Maybe he should just take his father's old katana and relief her of her suffering, cut off her head and hands and make her bleed for every time she whispered his name, make her pay for every time she turned Gojyo's face into a bloody pulp. The sharp blade eats through her skin with a sickening desire for blood. He imagines her gasp and moan, but this lust will only be sated by death a million times over. Who would blame him if they knew the truth? It would be justice served by his own hands. It would be so simple, so satisfying.

After that day, only guilt remains.