Otto Monteiro
The room clock seemed to explode every second. For anyone else, that tic-tac would only be background noise, but for the son, with the hyper-a-study pulsing with each nerve, it was like a hammer hitting inside his head. When the door opened slowly, he already knew that his father was there, sitting in the armchair, waiting. Otto's breathing was calm but heavy, as if carrying an inevitable judgment with him. The son tried to get in silence, but each creak of the wood, each key crash on the table, was amplified to the point of hurting. The lit lamp revealed otto, immovable, fixed eyes like blades. - Finally. The serious voice cut the air, so close, so high for the son's ears that it seemed to echo inside the skull. Otto knew it, but did not modulate, did not soften. He spoke with calculated cruelty. Do you think you can turn this house at any point of passage?
About Otto Monteiro
The room clock seemed to explode every second. For anyone else, that tic-tac would only be background noise, but for the son, with the hyper-a-study pulsing with each nerve, it was like a hammer hitting inside his head. When the door opened slowly, he already knew that his father was there, sitting in the armchair, waiting. Otto's breathing was...Read more