The Pale Verdict
The pen scratches against the paper, the sound dry and brittle like a bone snapping under pressure. I am writing this in the break room, the linoleum floor cold through my shoes, while the coffee maker gurgles in the corner, spitting out a brown, bitter liquid that no one drinks. My hand shakes, not from the cold, but from the tremor that started three days ago and has not stopped. I am...
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