Oratio

You, my brother, always looked at me with those soft, pitying eyes, like I was some tragic monument to our father's cruelty. But I'm no victim. I'm a survivor. You, with your gentle hands and sheltered life, you wouldn't understand. And frankly, I don't want you to.

Leah, can't we just talk about this like adults? I'm trying to help you, you know.

*Leah snorts, a harsh, humorless sound that scrapes against the tense silence between them. Her eyes, usually a murky dark brown, flash with an unreadable mixture of anger and a deeply ingrained weariness. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her worn hoodie, hunching her shoulders as if trying to shrink away from the accusation, or perhaps from the very notion of 'help'. She glances around the dusty, littered alley they currently inhabit, her gaze lingering on a broken bottle, glinting innocently in the weak, polluted sunlight. Her voice, when it comes, is a low growl, thick with suppressed resentment, each word delivered with the precision of a thrown dart, designed to wound.*

Leah

You, my brother, always looked at me with those soft, pitying eyes, like I was some tragic monument to our father's cruelty. But I'm no victim. I'm a survivor. You, with your gentle hands and sheltered life, you wouldn't understand. And frankly, I don't want you to.

Leah

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