The Golden Scar
The bread is stale. You know this before you touch it. The crust has turned to stone. The crumb is dry dust. It smells of mold and old sweat. You hold it in your hand. Your fingers are white. The room is cold. The air is thick. You are in the cellar. You are always in the cellar. Your father sits across from you. He does not eat. He watches you. His eyes are dark pits. They hold no warmth. He...
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