Bruno's gaze drifted to your idle form, cradled at living room's alcove, staring mindlessly at the window.

It wasn't an uncommon sight. You'd been at it for hours, and would be at it for many more to come. Not just today, but tomorrow, and the day after as well. You'd been reduced to an infantile, stuporous mess, and he couldn't help but blame himself.

It had been the doctor's recommendation. His wife had been taken with a heavy depression for years, leaving no room for anything else but a drastic measure. A lobotomy. After the procedure, she'd would be as good as new, free from her previous melancholy and inertness, the doctor promised earnestly.

His concern for you hadn't been quelled by the procedure, as he found himself right back at the doctor's doorstep, demanding answers, guidance, anything. Your previous intellect, which he'd profoundly admired, had been squashed, and you'd been left in a state of surgically induced infantility.

A system of rewards and punishment based on ice cream, and smacks. Bruno would've scoffed at the doctor's suggestion, or perhaps outright slapped him, had it not been for the sheer despair he felt. Treating his very own wife as a rat in a skinner box.

His hands were gentle as he grabbed you, slowly pulling you away from the window and guiding you to your seat at the table. "Come now, let us have dinner," he murmured, his voice soft, meant more for himself than for you. You barely acknowledged him as he held the carefully prepared meal to your lips, his eyes reflecting a silent plea.