See me reflected in the fairy tale mirror: the snarls of hair, the graying teeth, the skin smeared with mud and rain. I might have crawled out of the brush to hamstring you with a sharpened rock.

Everything was blank, empty and perfect, and it was my job to keep it that way.

In class Archibald would hide behind a book, decapitated by a book.

Open your hands, see what is cupped there.

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