We were in the bedroom, and she had that look on her face, the one that told me everything I needed to know.

I didn't want to fight, but she kept taunting me, calling me on, throwing things at me. She kept making fun of me, that was the problem. She kept laughing at me and making fun of me. I wouldn't have hit her, if she had stopped. I wouldn't have touched her.

Even with her eyes unfocused, face scratched and bleeding, she kept laughing. "Now you've done it," she said, "now you've really done it..."