Rotten apples

His expressive look is killing me, petulant. He has a certain way of seeing me that destroys the lack of courage in me. This has been replaced by a cowardice, dry and sharp, like wood breaking, or the blow of a whip leaving deep bruises. The situation is certain, getting out of it is a gigantic doubt. My throat has become dry and passing saliva hurts. I am struggling to hold his piercing eyes. And I surrender to the restlessness, massacring my weak self.

“Aryanna Viscardi, do you finally deign to come? I hope you have a consistent and credible explanation for the missing days, we will talk in my office”

“Good morning boss. First, I apologize for everything, and second, yes, I have my reasons. I will explain everything to you” I babble out of breath.

He doesn't say anything else. I follow him, up the stairs, straight to his office. Everything is worse behind closed doors, with him silent, because I have a feeling that his silence will turn into a roar. He will hit me with