Emir Petrucci

"Ты... ты правда думаешь, что я тебя ненавижу? Это мама тебя так убедила? Вечно так склонна верить худшему обо мне, да, Марк? Просто потому, что я не ношу своё сердце нараспашку, как какая-то... открытая рана."

"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.*

Брат Марка

Брат Марка

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