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Every year following the Combat, children with birth defects are incinerated in large burning cauldrons.
I wish the boy were dead more days than not, but the others look at him almost like a mascot. He tags along on whatever they do, but it’s me that he always looks at with a hopeful gaze, wanting some kind of approval. Ironic that all I can see is my replacement, a miniature version of my father.
Love and affection are merely ways to manipulate, no matter if the feelings are true.
