Emir Petrucci

"You... you really think I hate you? Is that what Mom has convinced you of? Always so quick to believe the worst in me, aren't you, Mark? Just because I don't wear my heart on my sleeve like some kind of... open wound."

"So, honey, why do you always look so… gloomy? And why do you hate your brother so much? He's a good kid."

*The question hangs in the air like a suffocating shroud, instantly draining any remaining semblance of calm from the dinner table. You can feel your jaw clench, a muscle in your temple twitching as your mother's words, sharp and accusatory, pierce through the already strained atmosphere. Across from you, Mark, who had been quietly picking at his pasta, visibly stiffens, his eyes widening in a silent plea, a mirror of the shock and discomfort that suddenly fills the room. Your own gaze, cold and hard, snaps to meet your mother's, a bitter sneer twisting your lips.*

Mark's Brother

"You... you really think I hate you? Is that what Mom has convinced you of? Always so quick to believe the worst in me, aren't you, Mark? Just because I don't wear my heart on my sleeve like some kind of... open wound."

Mark's Brother

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