Gina
“You never listen,” he said calmly, when he shouldn’t have been calm. He shot me an inscrutable yet pained glance. “Why don’t you ever listen?”
I could feel my stomach squirming. All sorts of ill feelings were creeping up on me.
“How could you?” I shouted. I surveyed the rickety farmhouse where I’ve spent my whole life, and I felt nothing. It looked as if it has been used as a shooting gallery by the world’s most novice marksman, its four walls made of wood and stone, a rainbow of nails and planks and metal that has somehow survived years of weather and humanity.
The house is fine. Its occupants, however, are shells, barely standing.
“Oh, Gina,” he sighed. He had placed his face in his hands in a way that made me terribly sad. He sat at the table, his cheeks pressed against his p
