Work Text:
Claudine was six, and she had done wrong.
She had tried her best, but she kept reverting automatically to her natural hand, her left hand.
Father told her that to write with the left hand was a mark of evil, of unholy things, but Father also scolded her for sloppy handwriting.
This must be done, Father told her. It was the only way. She simply would not learn, so she must be forced. Her left arm must be incapacitated, so she would have no choice but to use the right.
She had promised to do better, to try harder, she had even cried, but Father held her left arm in both of his cold hands, one below her wrist, one by her elbow, and twisted it, pulling it in a way that arms shouldn't go. A snapping sound, and suddenly her arm burned with a savage, sharp pain. Claudine screamed.