Papa’s potion was a test to see if we had kept our thighs unbloodied, our maidenheads unspoiled. I was always careful when I touched myself never to let my fingers slip too far inside, never to break what Papa wanted intact. He told us, too, what would happen if we drank the potion when we were ruined: we would vomit it back up along with our livers, and then he would hold up our own naked organs to us as proof of our deception, proof that we were thankless and debauched daughters who would sully the Vashchenko name.
Wtf...
