I am not proud of this.
Sometimes I think I should be kind to her, as she more than any other in this place understands that life is pain, because every day I strive make her life more wretched. And I do attempt kindnesses. For example, sometimes I allow her to walk by unmolested, or suffer her to lie on my bed.
But if I then more closely regard her face, I am ever overtaken by the urge to hiss, bite, scratch, punish. "You are beneath me," I cannot stop myself from saying, "and so you must suffer." The words issue forth without my consent. Every abuse brings me elation and guilt. Guilt that my happiness must come at the cost of hers, elation that it does.
Making Fremlin suffer eases my own suffering.