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She said my name like she was wrapping her finger around the trigger of a gun, somehow pronouncing the soft syllables like a warning shot.
I’ve always had the strangest instinct to run towards whatever is hurting me, to bare my neck to any predator that caught my scent, and that instinct was even stronger in times of crisis.
She was in love, and that was dangerous. After all, what horror wouldn’t I tolerate, if it was meted out by the hand of my beloved?
