It was his job to be the critic.
He’d taken it on when he was but a child and there was naught by chaos all around him.
Criticizing was a way to put some order into madness, to have at least the illusion of control.
Not that he’d criticize them openly and risk the switch or belt or backhand or the things that were … well … worse.
But criticize he did.
At first as practice.
Then as habit.
Then as something he would do without even a pause to think.
Offer a knifing critic.
Of his actions. Of his wishes. Of his hopes. His thoughts. His dreams.
What had began as coping, turned a prison.
And the jailer was inside him.
The sentencing, his own.