Ian:
I had not slept the entire night. The papers were spread across the wooden table, some open and some stacked, all covered in dust.
There were diary pages laying in front of me. The handwriting on some of them had faded, but it was still clear enough to read.
I had gone through everything again and again, trying to make sense of how long this had been happening and how this brutality had continued for so long.
When footsteps echoed down the stairs, I rubbed my face and kept reading.
My father appeared with a cup of coffee in his hand.
"This is your fifth cup, Ian. Why don't you take a little rest?" he remarked, stepping closer and placing the cup on the wooden table for me.
"I can't rest," I replied, feeling a roughness in my throat. "This is horrible. All of this. Everything they did. Everything you are doing. All this time, we were wronged about everything." I complained, rubbing the side of my neck.
