The Golden Scar
The ink on the skin was not black, but a deep, arterial red that seemed to pulse in time with the silence of the house, a living testament to the only thing that remained when the world had stripped away the name, the rank, and the face of Margaret Holloway, leaving only the mark that bound her to the institution, to the error, to the self she had tried so desperately to amputate from her own...
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