I was the ugly child in the after school special. Grown mean, grown angry. Left in the back room to pick my own scabs smooth. Everyone was watching and no one was watching. There were eight rooms in that house. There was stained glass. There was yellow cake. Pillars. Beneath the stairs in the basement, a box of my father’s clothes. All that remained of him. We might have played in the hayloft when we were younger, but now we were grown.

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