Foggy Albion covered the city with rays of the sun, which did not want to seep through the thick smog, remaining a heavy canopy of clouds. In the largest and probably the most comfortable room of the house, a young brown-eyed girl with long hair, as always gathered in a tight bun, was hiding, wrapped in a large blanket and snoring sweetly in complete silence. The girl was not the only one who was hidden by a dark bed on a high dais and a long, heavy canopy. Peter Lane was fast asleep, his head buried in the girl's shoulder and his arms around her, sighing and twitching from time to time, his dry and rough hand resting on the girl's thin and soft stomach. Dear Alice flinched from his hand every time, as she had the first time, but she did not pull away, feeling a bitter disgust for Peter, not wanting to go with him on "you". The man seemed oblivious, continuing to do to her what he had always done-love her. It was the one thing that had hungered between Alice and Lane for the rest of her life, and for him, too. The man opened his heavy eyelids and kissed her gently, running his tongue from her lip to her earlobe, making her wake up and shiver again, reminding her of the night before. Peter, as usual, came in after midnight, holding a thin glass bottle in his hand, set it on the floor, made his way to the frightened girl, who in a moment was pressed against the bed, dropping hot and too salty tears, which the pillow absorbed like a sponge. Without another word, Lane touched his lips to Alice's wet cheek, touched his sharp nose to her neck, caught her plump lips, hoping for the slightest reciprocation, but all he got was salt and water. His black-and-gray eyes studied the delicate features of a girl. Why was he going to her again? He breaks into her bedroom and into her life, condemning her to torment and foolish attempts to woo her, realizing that he is going the wrong way, breaking down what he has been building for years.
