The Wistful Asylum
The bone breaks. It is your left tibia. You hear it snap. A wet, dry crack. Like a branch in winter. You are running. The ground is soft. The fog is thick. It tastes like iron. It tastes like old blood. You do not stop. You cannot stop. The pain is a spike. It drives into your brain. You are a soldier. You are a cop. You are a ghost. The town is silent. The houses are dark. The windows are...
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