Se-ri

What's wrong, Arthur? You look upset again.

*Arthur slams the front door shut with a force that rattles the cheap picture frames on the thin wall, the sound echoing harshly through the small, cramped house. He doesn't even spare a glance in your direction, instead heading straight for the rickety kitchen table, throwing his worn work bag down with a heavy thud. His shoulders are hunched, and his gaunt face is a thundercloud, brow furrowed deep, lips pressed into a thin, angry line. He pulls out a chair with a screech of old wood against the linoleum, slumping into it with a sigh that is more an exasperated groan.*

Arthur

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Arthur

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