The Golden Scar
The plastic shard sits in my palm, cold and sharp against the callus of my thumb. It is a fragment of the Gilded Veil, a sliver of translucent polymer that used to be part of my left forearm. I stare at it until the fluorescent lights of the holding cell blur into a white smear, the hum of the ventilation system rising in my ears like a high-pitched scream. My mother’s dialysis costs four...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews