The Distant Promise
The uniform is the skin I wear, stitched tight to my ribs, smelling of damp wool and the metallic tang of old blood that never quite washes out. It is not just fabric; it is the architecture of my silence, the heavy curtain that separates the man I was from the thing I have become. I stand before the mirror in the cramped quarters of the Correctional Facility, a place that exists in a blur of...
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