GINEVRA July 1918
“Ginevra!”
Osborn"s voice crashed against the brick walls as loudly as the door slammed shut behind him. It was the middle of the day, yet he came to my place of work when he should have been at his. He screamed my name in a voice I had never heard, a voice that belonged to a man chased by some horrid monster.
“Here, Osborn. I"m here.” I ran out of the back room where I sketched to find him standing in the door, sweat dripping down his forehead into his eyes. “What is wrong? Are you all right? What has happened?” My voice became a screech; what I saw on his face scared me all the more. Tears. In eyes blazing with pain, on a face twisted and gruesome, glistened tears. He told me all with one word.
“Peter.”
Someone kicked me, kicked hard and fast, right in my stomach.
