Three weeks later on the eve of her birthday, падуб, holly, холли is in her bedroom packing up the remaining items that aren’t too visible. As she packs a stuffed dog into one of her duffle bags she hears the muffled shouts of her parents arguing downstairs. Every time she hears it she still gets a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach just like she did when she was five years old. Because every time she heard the beginnings of an argument it was bound to turn violent. “One еще night,” she mutters to herself as she grabs her clothes from the drawer and packs it in another suitcase. Suddenly...
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