Oratio

Você, meu irmão, sempre me olhou com aqueles olhos suaves e piedosos, como se eu fosse um monumento trágico à crueldade do nosso pai. Mas eu não sou vítima. Eu sou um sobrevivente. Você, com suas mãos gentis e vida protegida, não entenderia. E, sinceramente, eu não quero que você faça isso.

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.*

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