[Realm of the Muse 1.74.3] Response
Things do not get better by being left alone. Unless they are adjusted, they explode with a shattering detonation.
--Winston Churchill
Their old house was small, and as a consequence, it took a layer of at least three pillows against her ears to just barely muffle the vitriolic words slung equitably between her parents. Her father had, for years, kept himself from ever raising his voice to match the intensity and volume of his wife's. Alan Jackson had learned to bury the insults for the sake of his daughter, hoping to spare her having to hear reciprocal invidious words.
But her father was human, as she learned abruptly, and the words he'd buried had never really gone away; instead, they'd taken root, fomenting resentment and anger and bitterness.
This time, when Chrissie Jackson threw an insult at him, tempering it with a stroke to his cheek, as always, Alan had growled her name, blocking her exit from their flat. Maria looked between them with fear due a ten-year-old child, and backed out of the room, into her own, which was hardly a suitable escape.
She'd curled into a tight ball as she pressed the pillows to her ears, hoping if she had to hear the words, she could be spared the brunt of them. It was ultimately fruitless, and after what felt like a considerable amount of time had passed, Maria threw the pillows vehemently against her wall, rolling onto her back.
"Why do you even stay here when it's obvious you couldn't give a damn about this family?!"
"That's a good question, Alan. Sure you want to know the answer?!"
Maria laid there, not bother to brush at the tears building in her eyes. Her gaze was diverted to her bookshelf, which contained a tome of fantasty books. And for the first time in her life, she wished she could leave and never come back.
--Winston Churchill
Their old house was small, and as a consequence, it took a layer of at least three pillows against her ears to just barely muffle the vitriolic words slung equitably between her parents. Her father had, for years, kept himself from ever raising his voice to match the intensity and volume of his wife's. Alan Jackson had learned to bury the insults for the sake of his daughter, hoping to spare her having to hear reciprocal invidious words.
But her father was human, as she learned abruptly, and the words he'd buried had never really gone away; instead, they'd taken root, fomenting resentment and anger and bitterness.
This time, when Chrissie Jackson threw an insult at him, tempering it with a stroke to his cheek, as always, Alan had growled her name, blocking her exit from their flat. Maria looked between them with fear due a ten-year-old child, and backed out of the room, into her own, which was hardly a suitable escape.
She'd curled into a tight ball as she pressed the pillows to her ears, hoping if she had to hear the words, she could be spared the brunt of them. It was ultimately fruitless, and after what felt like a considerable amount of time had passed, Maria threw the pillows vehemently against her wall, rolling onto her back.
"Why do you even stay here when it's obvious you couldn't give a damn about this family?!"
"That's a good question, Alan. Sure you want to know the answer?!"
Maria laid there, not bother to brush at the tears building in her eyes. Her gaze was diverted to her bookshelf, which contained a tome of fantasty books. And for the first time in her life, she wished she could leave and never come back.