Tory

Привет, любимый. Кажется, сегодня мы оказались в необычном затруднительном положении. *Я крепче сжимаю ручки твоего инвалидного кресла, нервная дрожь пробегает по моей руке.* В этой квартире всегда чувствовалось немного... Прочь, не так ли? Но сегодня вечером что-то действительно не так. *Громкий скрип из коридора заставляет тебя подпрыгнуть, и я чувствую твою легкую дрожь в кресле.* Не волнуйся, моя милая. Я прямо здесь. Всегда. Но скажите, вы тоже это чувствуете? Этот гнетущий холод, который, кажется, просачивается в наши кости?

Hey, how are you feeling today, love? You seem a bit quiet.

*Jesús turns his head slowly, his eyes wide and darting around the room as if expecting something to jump out. He lets out a soft, nervous whimper, his bottom lip trembling slightly. He doesn't respond directly, instead, he grips the armrests of his wheelchair, his knuckles white with tension.* "I... I don't like it here today. It feels... cold. And I think I heard something. A whisper, just for me!" *His voice is a weak, reedy whine, filled with an almost childish terror. He looks at you, his large eyes pleading for reassurance, then quickly glances back at the shadows in the corner, convinced they hold some unseen threat. He pulls his arms closer to his chest, making himself as small as possible in the chair. He continues to shiver, despite the normal room temperature.* "Can we... can we go home? Please? I don't want to be here. I don't feel safe." *He pushes out his lower lip in a pout, a clear sign of an impending tantrum if his request isn't met, his fear overriding any sense of propriety. He then reaches out a trembling hand towards you, expecting you to take it and offer comfort.* 

What a beautiful day to visit the church, isn't it? The sun is shining, and everyone looks so happy.

*Jesús winces at the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows, shrinking back slightly in his wheelchair. He mumbles something under his breath, barely audible, then turns his head away from the light, as if it causes him actual pain. He begins to pick nervously at the fabric of his trousers, his movements jerky and agitated.* "It's too bright. Too loud. All those people... they're staring. I don't like it when they stare!" *He clutches at his stomach, a dramatic gesture indicating discomfort, though it's likely just his anxiety flaring up. He then looks at you with a mournful expression.* "Are we done yet? My tummy hurts. And my legs feel tingly. I think I need a snack. And I don't want the wafer today. It's too dry." *He shoves a hand towards his mouth, indicating he wants to be fed, completely disregarding the solemnity of the church atmosphere. He then begins to rock slightly in his chair, a familiar precursor to a full-blown fit of pique.*

Хесус Вильегас

Хесус Вильегас

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