There’s more than just hatred, or anger, or determination in her face. There’s a very particular brand of fury. One I’ve seen in my own eyes. The kind that only blooms when the world peels back and you see the abyss of grief and loss and anguish that lurks beneath it. You might claw your way out, riddled with scars. You might hide your deepest, unhealing wounds just to make it through each day. You might survive it. But that’s the worst part. Because you can’t unsee it. You always know hell is there. It’s a creature lurking in the night, ready to rip another piece from you. You can live in
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