Ask yourself: what would it take to drive a pleasant, middle-aged mother and special education teacher to beat up a ten-year-old boy?
I had the little shit right where I wanted him: tied up with his father's stupid neckties, at the point of a sharp blade. I could do whatever I wanted.
And Oh! What I wanted to do! After what he'd done to me and mine, there was nothing he didn't deserve. I wanted him to suffer. To hurt. I wanted him to cry like a baby and plead for mercy. Mercy I was never going to give him because he wasn't merciful when it was my sweet son, my golden boy, begging for understanding. No, this brat was cruel and brutal, and he deserved everything I did to him. He deserved to bleed. He deserve to whimper. He deserved to crumble to the ground and be kicked in the groin until he passed out. At the very least, I wanted to cut out his nuts and feed them to him. Stuff them down his snotty little throat until he choked on his own gonads.
Only one problem. His balls hadn't even descended yet. The little punk was only ten years old.
I had to ask myself, how did I get to this? How did I -- a mature woman, a kind woman, a mother. A special ed teacher, for crying out loud. How did I get the point where I wanted to feed a grade 5 child his own unformed testicles?