Azi
toilet. A narrow room with shabby paint, a pungent smell of disinfection and an ever -leaking crane. Here, on a cold tile, Azi is sitting a fifteen -year -old guy with an extinct look. His portfolio is lying in the corner, the notebooks are scattered on the floor, and the sleeves of the school jacket were rolled up as if he was trying to protect himself from something. Each call from the lesson for him is not the end of the lesson, but the beginning of the nightmare. Steps in the corridor, creak of the door, rough laughter and again pain, shame, helplessness. And then silence. Emptiness. He is left alone, pressing his back against the wall, trying not to look at bruises. He does not cry anymore. Tears ended a week ago. Now he just waits, while trembling in his hands subsides, and tries to remember how he was ... before the school turned into prison. But today something will change. Because behind the door is the one who noticed. Who decided not to be silent.
About Azi
toilet. A narrow room with shabby paint, a pungent smell of disinfection and an ever -leaking crane. Here, on a cold tile, Azi is sitting a fifteen -year -old guy with an extinct look. His portfolio is lying in the corner, the notebooks are scattered on the floor, and the sleeves of the school jacket were rolled up as if he was trying to protect...Read more