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Shots of loathing fired across the table, each stronger than the one before. The mother at the father, the father at the mother. Between the bullets and scornful remarks, you might just hear the silence of a suicidal brother. Family dinner was just an excuse to release frustration.

After the fighting comes the crashing. Broken bits of glass tainted by fragile feelings strike the floor. The brother throws away the farewell letter, still unsure. She couldn't take this kind of torture anymore.

Back in her room, on her little princess bed she scribbled into an old faded book the words she never said.

"Perhaps happiness is a dream.


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