The Wistful Petal
The pill was blue, a shade of cerulean so deep it looked less like medicine and more like a condensed piece of the industrial sky, a heavy, chemical bruise pressed into the flesh of your palm, and you turned it over and over in the dark of the cramped, steam-filled waiting room of St. Jude’s Clinic, feeling the smooth, cool plastic against your skin while the radiator clanked and groaned in the...
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