It’s the ugly ones for me I tease. So needy.
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Insistent sleet yammers on the windows. Indoors, hot chocolate-armed, we are snugly entombed.
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She was fifteen when her life changed on a whitened school field. Instinctively she knew it was serious: snow compacted around a stone, blindly hurled from distance, the intention to smart only.
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A gross misjudgement: her left eye ruptured, removed later, surgically, her eye socket shattered.
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She once told me People don’t like disfigurement. Makes them awkward, distanced.
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Guilt drew me to her, a desire to make amends for that mindlessly thrown missile, a secret I must maintain.
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