The Distant Wound
The form was stamped in red ink, a stark block of authority against the pale gray paper. It was a Deletion Request, Form 7-B, and my signature at the bottom was shaky, the pen nib catching on the paper as if the ink itself resisted the act. I held the document up to the fluorescent light, checking for smudges. My heart hammered against my ribs, a dull, arrhythmic thud that had grown louder with...
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