Eight months. That was how long it took before he let her out of that stifling malodorous room. By then she was caked with filth and stank like a sewer rat. Perhaps he waited until she turned fifteen.

There was water for her in a tub, warm and undulating steam. She waded into it, immersed herself, wondering how long she could hold her breath, then scrubbed her filth meticulously with soap and sponge. When she came out she felt lithe and pruned. A towel and a change of clothes hung by the sink. When she had slipped on the dress she had never felt lighter.

Wrath led him to a long dining table covered in linen and containing only two intricately carved wooden seats on each end. On the far right was a plate with a rack of ribs grilled with garlic and basil and garnished with vegetables, and a glass of wine. The left, lay only a bottle of whiskey and a wine glass. Sin sat down at the far right, silverware on each hand and began piercing the potatoes with her fork. She had been craving for the taste of seasoned vegetables for months, and at that moment was delightedly spearing them like party kebabs before stuffing them in her mouth.

The man, studying her in the utter fondness of a revelry host poured himself a glass of whiskey while he leaned down on his seat. Sin ravenously sliced a chunk of meat off the ribs and shoved it in her mouth. She busied herself with swift, impatient chewing before slowing down, eyeing the ribs with the scrutiny of a food critic grinding her teeth into a fingernail. Then she looked over to her host at the far end with much foreboding.

“How many ribs does a man have?” she asked.

Wrath smacked his lips at his whiskey. “Funny you should ask,” he said derisively.

He led her to the kitchen, where she saw pots and pans hanging along with the tufts of garlic and onions, the sink bedecked with the exquisiteness of vintage cupboards, and an old-fashioned wood-burning oven. The only riddling sight was the gas oven placed in modern convenience. Further off was an arched doorway to an unlit room, the only thing that had her disconcerted.

She looked up at Wrath, who took an oil lamp from the kitchen and nudged her forward to the doorway as she walked, fearful and quivering in the knees. There was already the heavy vicious air petrifying her without perceiving anything from the doorway as she approached. As the light shone she saw the hanging corpse of half a man emptied of his bowels and cleanly mutilated with a butcher knife. She fell on her knees, gasping for breath over the dreadful pounding in her chest. Wrath crouched down with his arm stretched out to shine the lamp further into the room.

“What do you see?” he asked.

Sin looked at the butchered corpse despite the accumulating bile in her throat. “A stiff,” she managed to say.

“And,” he tapped her head contentedly, “what else?”

“Blood,” she replied, “there’s no blood. You drink them. Then you serve them to me.”

“You know what’s been going on,” he said to her, “you’ve been denying it ever since you sank your teeth into a slab of meat I’ve been serving you. It’s survival, and you’ve been playing it with me all along. Because you refuse to starve to death.”

He pulled her off the ground, his hand still stretched out while his eyes glinted, beholding his slaughter in the stately manner of an artist at work. “We’ll play this game.” He went on, “we’ll play it for years until you see the glory of it in your own eyes.” He noticed her shock and stillness, pressed his lips on her hair, basked in the scent and warmth of the newly-bathed youth under his arm.

“Dear girl,” he said soothingly, “weren’t you the one who sees the sins of others, their intentions towards you? Then you know there’s nothing to be afraid of.”