The blood ran down her features as she clenches her claws, not her blood, but the blood still got in the way.  Annoying, troublesome, disruptive.  She used all her strength to flex her claws down, bearing into the scales and flesh of the other person.  Male, fat, elderly.  Her burning crimson eyes stare hard into the dying light of his, clutching at his throat, her claws in the way as she dug her claws in, tearing out his throat bit by bit.  Her arms burned as she held the other male above her head, his claws both trying to push himself up and bring her claws off, oblivious that his jugular had already been torn, that the blood that splashed into her face was his own, and that the cold weakness creeping into his extremities and into his mind was the creeping march of death.  He scrabbles his claws at her stomach, trying to find purchase before his life totally drained from his body.  She kept her grip, tightening bit by bit, feeling the scales and skin, connective tissues and his larynx give way as she bore down with all of her strength, and watched his eyes slowly go dark.  Finally, she listened to the burning, screaming pain in her arms that she had endured for the past six minutes that she had held the bastard in the air, letting them drop, her arms relaxing, her hands releasing their iron grip, and letting the corpse of her rapist, the one who had claimed her body for the last four months, six days, and nine hours, fall to the floor with a heavy, thud that carried an ultimate weight of finality.  The blood-soaked scales of her arms gleamed in the soft firelight nearby, the candles all around flickering, illuminating the bloody scene.  She stood there, breathing hard, the very young woman reborn in freedom that she had purchased with the life of her father.  Her head tilts back, shoulders aching terribly as the tears finally began to flow, tears that she had withheld for those one hundred and twenty nine days flowing as she stood there, barely standing.  She wept for so many reasons, emotions rushing through her body as she cried silently, breathing ragged harsh breaths, the scent of her victory, a mixture of his sickening sex, and the sweeter metallic taste of his blood in the air.  His seed that ran slowly down her thigh, this was the last time she would ever have to feel it.  The last time she ever had to bear his bruises.  The very last time ever, that she had to endure his cruel words.  Faggot.  Dyke.  Carpet muncher.  Her swollen eyes look down once more upon the unmoving pile of worthless meat, bones, and organs at her hindclaws.
The beautiful blue scales beneath the slowly drying blood, a violet color that matched her name, Amethyst Grace finally takes a step back from the gruesome scene, shaking her head.  Being bisexual had brought so much hardship for her, cruelty from both sides.  She staggers slowly to the kitchen, lighting a lamp and setting it on the counter as she pulls over a bucket of old water, kneeling and starting to wash away the blood.  She takes the threadbare cloth and works with her claws as she remembers the first girl she had let know of her sexuality.  The disgust and hateful words that had followed were worse than a full slap on her face.  Choose one.  Pick a side.  Dick or pussy, not both you greedy bitch.  she shivers as she starts to notice the blood seems to refuse to come up all the way.  More splattering of water to the floor, but it wasn’t from her rag, as her eyes blur up again, vision obscuring.  Shaking her head she gives up on her claws, hissing as the bruised folds of her sex are wiped clean from the rag.  Cleaning away the last of his filth, the last time, the very last time.
Stumbling up as she uses the counter to bring herself up once more, nearly knocking the bucket of lukewarm water over as she slips.  Being sixteen was not supposed to be like this.  She knew stories, of things and how they were allegedly supposed to be.  Behaviour that was considered to be normal.  Activities that never would ever reach the scope of other people's minds, let alone consider being a part of the ingrained, etched, scored reality that she knew to be her world. She stops as she looks to the weathered and decrepit cabinet that held nearly as many bottles as a bar.  Each one was for a different occasion, each one a different victory of her father’s.  Her gaze hardened, glancing at the burning lamp.   Now, each one would fuel him being erased from this world.  She takes the lamp and sets it near his corpse.  He was so still now. Not a single breath.  Not a single judging, hateful, loathing, spiteful look shot her way.
She takes time, being meticulous to pour each and every bottle over his body, spilling it over the cheap furniture, all around, into the bedroom, the bathroom, letting the old wood of the house, the dry aged boards soak in every drop.  She then does the same for every drop of oil in the house, anger now burning hotly in her veins, her heart a blast furnace of rage that she was uncertain when or if it could ever be cooled.  This crucible would forge her into something else though, something vastly different, something far stronger.  She would sear the impurities, the weakness she had before, everything would burn away.
She stood at the back door, the stench of the outhouse not ten meters behind her, the lamp in her hand, a bottle of oil in the other.  She scowls and cocks her arm, hurling the bottle at the fireplace.  It sails nearly silent through the air, the baked clay bottle twisting as the air rushes over it, then explodes as it strikes the bricks of the herth, sending ceramic and oil everywhere.  The fire lets out an angry ‘FWOOOSH’ as it rushes through the house, devouring every drop of oil and booze like a desert traveler without days of water.  His corpse was still so still, even as it was enreathed in flame.  Turning on her heel, she lets the back door creak slowly as it closes, taking her lamp and tugging at a robe from the clothesline.  She ignores the growing flames as they gnaw and chew on the wood, greedily and hotly gnashing at every scrap of fuel they can find.  She picks up a simple woodsman axe and tugs on some simple pants she liked, fastening a belt around her waist and closing the robe over that.  Without a single glance backwards to the growing inferno, as the one within her chest blazed hotter than it ever could, she marches to carve a new life away from this place, it did not matter how many miles she had to travel, how many worlds she would have to traverse, how many planes of existence, she would be happy.  She had earned that, paid for it in blood, many weeks of rape, many months of abuse, many years of suffering.