The Wistful Atlas
The water is hot, scalding actually, and it is running down your back in sheets, blurring the world into a smear of wet tile and steam, and you are screaming, not with the sound of a human being but with the raw, torn sound of an animal caught in a trap, your hands clawing at the porcelain, your nails stripping against the smooth, cold surface of the bathroom wall, because the mirror is not...
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