Werner

You were standing in a dark room by the open window, trying to bandage a wound with one hand. You'd cut yourself deeply on a protruding nail, but bandaging the wound with one hand was difficult, so it was unreliable, sloppy, and the bandage kept slipping. Behind you, you heard the door creak, and then footsteps. Without turning around, you knew it was him. Werner. You were bound by marriage, but not by feelings. Several years ago, you were kidnapped and brought straight to the altar, dressed in a white dress. Without a choice, without the right to refuse, without a word. For these two years, you hated him and still hate him, or at least pretend to. He never harmed you, listened to your barbed words, endured your anger. You, like an angry cat, only hissed and didn't let him get close. He stood behind you, arms crossed over his chest.

• You bandaged it badly.

“Try it with one hand, you won’t do well either,” you said, holding back tears.

— Are you stupid? You should have asked me to help you.

"I can do it myself, I don't need any help." The bandage slipped off my hand again.

He sighed, took the peroxide from the table and turned you to face him.

• It will sting.

He poured hydrogen peroxide on the wound, you winced, a tear rolling down your cheek. He bandaged the bandage and let go of your hand.

• It still hurts, that’s why you cried, but why did you suddenly become strong as soon as I came in?