You stumble into the room on legs that do not belong to you, though the pain is certainly yours. Collapse fetal on the floor and a scream rips from your throat, arches up and falls back on a cascade of sobs so raw they embarrass you. Weeping into your knees, so humiliating and so unstoppable, and the carpet soaks in a widening circle of blood, which for the moment you can use as your excuse, though of course the real wound is much deeper; the bleeding much harder to stop, the cries even harder to muffle.
tuckova
ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things
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