Ophelia, who stood wringing her hands like she still might drag him out of this, looked up with watery eyes. Her face was soft, thoughtful.
"He wasn't… always this way," she said quietly. "He used to be sweet. He brought me berries once. I remember he—he made me laugh when I cried over my little sand-hopper"
Isabella rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't shoot out of her head.
"Girl, I don't care if he once sprinkled flower petals in your bath and sang lullabies to birds. The man I'm seeing now is a spit-stained disaster with the soul of a toilet. You can't hug the nice out of a monster."
Ophelia bit her lip, saying nothing. Her gaze lingered on Gerwin as he flopped under another punch, a mixture of sadness and silent shame flickering in her eyes.
Another woman had picked up a wooden spoon from a cooking pot and was whacking Gerwin with it like she was tenderizing meat. Isabella clapped once, approvingly.
"Excellent technique! Great form!"
