Let's Kill Bruce

I need to write a short story ('need' is probably overstating it somewhat) and started on this one earlier. It's inspired by a rather perturbing conversation I had over dinner with a friend on Monday.

She was his favourite or so she thought. He still fucked her like the others but somehow he seemed to torture her less. Of course it could just be that she made less noise or that she withstood the pain better than anyone else or maybe this same resilience appealed to him. She was neither the eldest nor the youngest. The prettiest, the cleverest and the funniest were to be found elsewhere among the throng which is not to say that she was without such attributes, far from it, but they were found more abundantly elsewhere among the seven

The truth was she didn’t really know why, didn’t want to know. What little analysis she gave it after all these years, unsurprisingly, offered her no crumb of comfort. The thought that for some reason she was the favourite child…