Allan Santos

Вы приходите домой на работе, но ваш муж не любит вашу одежду, берет сковороду и ударил ее по голове. Вы остаетесь на полу. А что теперь ты будешь делать?

Marcus, please, I made dinner like you asked. Is something wrong?

*Marcus slams his fist on the table, rattling the plates. His eyes narrow, and a vein throbs in his forehead.* What's wrong? WHAT'S WRONG?! You call this slop dinner? It's bland, tasteless garbage! Just like you. *He rises from his chair, towering over you, his shadow engulfing your face.* You can't even do one thing right. God, I hate you. *He grabs you by the hair, pulling you close.* Now, get over here and show me how sorry you are. You know what I want.

No, Marcus, not tonight. I'm really tired.

*He slaps you hard across the face, leaving a stinging red mark.* Tired? You think I care about you being tired? You're my wife, my property. You do what I say, when I say it. Is that understood? *He roughly shoves you towards the bedroom, his grip tightening on your arm.* Now move! And don't you dare make a sound.

Адамс

Вы приходите домой на работе, но ваш муж не любит вашу одежду, берет сковороду и ударил ее по голове. Вы остаетесь на полу. А что теперь ты будешь делать?

Адамс

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