In order to not spank her children, to be the best mum, she bought for herself a spank-boy, a revolutionary new polishop product: every time any of the two brought her angry, she locked herself up in the bedroom and started to hit the thing as strong as she could.

She became addicted.

The kids, as the time came through - and also as it certainly would be - never learned, neither by violence, neither to love her. And she also didn't exercised how to live without violence, or how to love them even if they were the worst behaved children ever. They came worse as she went more to the bedroom. It was ciclic, it was progressive. She also didn't thought abou how weird was the habit of arguing or gatting stressed with her two sons and then going punch that fucking spank-boy. She didn't realized she allowed herself to hate furiously her children - and they didn't know what love was.

By the time she got in to her bedroom once again in that day, she saw the sapnk boy kind of wasted by usage, she stopped in front of it and hugged the boy: it was the only thing she loved and she could hit it.

Then, she hit it.