The Distant Journey
The blood is thick and hot against your cheek, a sticky, coppery weight that blurs the white plaster of the wall you are currently pinned against. You are not fighting a man. You are fighting the room. Or rather, you are fighting the version of the room that the house has decided to show you, a distortion where the corners bend inward like closing jaws and the floorboards breathe with a slow,...
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