The Faded Sutra
The water in the bathtub is red, not with blood, but with the rust that has seeped from the pipes of this house for the last forty years. You are scrubbing your hands, the soap lathering into a thick, gray paste that smells of bleach and old pennies. You are in the middle of the fight. The mirror above the sink is cracked, a spiderweb of fractures radiating from a single point where you struck...
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