"It happened a lot," Cinna says, fiddling with the brim of his favorite hat. "Not every day, but at least once a week. On other days, he'd be apologetic and sweet to us. He'd give us fake promises that it would never happen again." He twists and bends the black hat's enduring edges, studying each crease as if there were nothing more in the world. His face was serious, all humor gone from his normally flippant features. He looked older, more mature; an odd look. "Often he'd come home already drunk... I remember the stench was overwhelming. When he did drink at home, of course, no one would every try to stop him. If they did, they'd just be volunteering for his wrath." He pauses here, his heterochromis eyes flashing towards the sky. He places his hat back onto his head to cast a shadow over