Then she stands, pulls the veil out of her hair, tosses it to the floor, and steps out of the dress. It slithers down her legs and pools at her feet, sighing softly as it settles against the carpet. She stands in front of me naked except for a simple pair of white cotton panties. And more fucking scars. On her stomach. Across her ribs. Under both breasts. Her arms and legs are smooth and so are her chest and neck, but the rest of her body is marked with the ghosts of her past, a hundred mementos of suffering. It’s like looking at tombstones in a graveyard. I’ve never cried in my adult life,
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